Up to the Sky, Dear
by RachelDalloway
Summary: The sequel to my story Love Isn't Always Beautiful. It takes place six years later. What new trials will they face?
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Here it is, the sequel! **

_December 22, 1922_

For Rose nothing existed but Jack's hands. They were everywhere at once, curling around her, caressing and kneading, strong and warm against her skin. Was she whispering his name? Maybe. She couldn't be sure. She couldn't be sure of anything but him, his movements, so smooth and quick yet still as gentle as the first time he touched her.

"We'll have to get up soon," she murmured sleepily. He hugged her closer. "It's not that late." He kissed her temple. "We've got a little while before the kids need to be picked up_." _

"It's three thirty," she said. Her eyes were closed. "They need to be picked up at four." he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. "You're right. It is three thirty." She moved to sit up. "No," he said, "You stay here. I'll go." He gave her a squeeze. "It's cold out there, honey." She rolled over to face him. "So then you should stay here. I don't want you getting sick again."

"That was years ago. I haven't been sick since that one time."

"And you won't-"

"Get sick from being outside for five minutes. I'll be fine." He tucked the blankets around her. "I'll be back before you know it," he added as he went into the bathroom. When he came out the bed was empty. A dressed Rose stood in front of the mirror brushing her hair. "Are you ready?"

...

The radio had said there would be snow, but they hadn't quite believed it. Not once in the nine years they had lived in Georgia had it snowed. Were it not for winter trips to Philadelphia Monica and Anthony would have had no idea what snow was. It got cold every winter. Sometimes it would get so cold the rain would freeze and ice would be everywhere for a day or two, which never failed to amaze and delight the children. But as far as Jack, Rose, and Stella were concerned, it wasn't winter without snow. They had expected the winter of 1922 to be no exception, but as they hurried from the house to the car they couldn't help but notice the thick snow clouds gathering overhead.

"Think it'll finally happen?" Jack said. Rose's eyes were glued to the sky. "Maybe," she said. She shivered. "It's certainly cold enough for it."

They made it to the school just as the children began filing out the door. Monica ran ahead of the crowd, a small portfolio tucked under her arm. Her coat was unbuttoned. Her curls fell freely down her back, a blue hair ribbon flying like a forlorn banner as she ran. "Mama!" she called, throwing herself into Rose's arms. "Mama, look what I drew today!"

"Why isn't your coat buttoned, darling?" Rose said, bending down so she was eye level with her. Monica shrugged. "Look!"

"I will, but first we have to get your brother." Rose looked up at Jack. "Do you see him?"

Jack scanned the thinning crowd of children for his son's light red hair. "There he is," he said. Anthony trudged toward them. His head was down and his shoulders were hunched as if he were expecting a blow. "Something wrong?" Jack asked. Anthony shook his head. "You sure?" Jack watched his face for a sign he was lying. "Just cold," Anthony said. "Well, we're going home," Rose said, wrapping an arm around him. She shephered both children into the car.

"Now can I show you what I drew?" Monica asked as soon as they were settled in. "Now you can show me," Rose said with a smile. Monica turned to Jack. "And you'll look too, Daddy?" She held the portfolio out tentatively. It had been a gift for her sixth birthday, and for almost a year she had drawn in it tirelessly. She showed every drawing to Rose and Stella, but she only showed Jack drawings she thought were special. "Of course I'll look," he said. "You know you don't have to ask, Santa Monica."

Anthony was quiet the whole way home. He stared out the window and watched the snow that was beginning to fall. Rose stole a glance at him over her shoulder. _What is he thinking?_ she wondered. He was always so quiet. He was a sweet boy. He did everything he was told. He wasn't timid or shy, but he was quiet. He could be in a room for five minutes before anyone noticed. Neither Jack nor Rose understood it. Jack naturally struck up conversations whereever he went even as a child, and Rose's silences had tended to be chosen for her. _He's fine,_ she told herself. _Stella was a quiet child too. _

...

Jack was surprised to see Anthony waiting for him on the porch when he returned from the woodpile. "Whatcha doin?" he asked. "And does your mother know you're out here?" Anthony avoided his eyes. "Dad, when's Stella coming home?" Jack began stacking the wood next to the door. "She should be home tonight," he said. "Anytime now, actually. Why?"

"Just wondering."

"You miss her, don't you?"

"Yeah..."

Jack tousled his hair. "Well, she'll be here soon. Get back in the house before your mother starts worrying." He smiled as he watched him go. He was just like Rose. They both were. He was halfway to the woodpile when Stella's voice rang out across the still yard. "Jack!" He grinned. "Stella Maris!"

Suitcase in hand, she began to run toward him. "Can you believe it's snowing? I never thought I'd see this!" She dropped her suitcase and threw her arms around him. "It's freezing! What are you doing out here? Does Rose know?"

"I'm getting wood," he said with a laugh. "And yeah, she knows. She gave me a five minutes."

"Or she comes out after you?"

"You got it."

"Well, let me help you."

"Oh no," he said. "I've got it. How'd you get home? You didn't walk again, did you?"

"Not the whole way. I got a ride into town with another girl. I walked from there."

"You should've called. It's too cold to be walking that far."

"Oh, I didn't mind at all. I wanted to be out in the snow for a little while." She tried to contain her smile but couldn't. Snowflakes covered the top of her jet black hair. Her cheeks were red. "Do you think it'll last?"

"I hope so. It would be nice to have snow on Christmas again."

"Jack, it's getting colder!" Rose stood on the porch, hugging herself. Her eyes lit up when she saw Stella. "I was getting worried you wouldn't be able to make it because of the snow," she said. "It would take more than that to stop me," Stella said. "I wouldn't have missed Christmas."

...

Jack had his portfolio open on his lap, but he wasn't drawing. He couldn't stop looking around the room long enough to begin. Stella was curled up in the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace. Monica was next to her. Anthony was at her feet. They were both listening raptly as she read _Nicholas Nicklebly. _Rose sat next to him on the couch, a blank book on her knees. She was writing furiously. She didn't notice him watching her. _This is how it's supposed to be,_ Jack thought.

Monica yawned. The sound broke through Rose's mental wall. She looked up, her pen still for the first time in half an hour. "I think it's time for someone to be getting to bed." She shifted her gaze to Anthony. He had the wide eyes of a child trying desperately to stay awake. "Two someones."

"Can't we hear the rest of the chapter?" Monica pleaded. Rose shook her head. "No, darling. Not tonight." Monica sighed. She wanted to argue, but a part of her wasn't confident she would win. Stella smoothed her hair. "We'll read more tomorrow," she said.

"Promise?"

"Of course. Haven't I been reading to you since you were born?" She kissed Monica's forehead. "Now, off to bed like your mother says."

After a round of good night kisses from Rose the children hurried up the stairs. Jack tucked in Monica while Stella tucked in Anthony. "Something wrong?" she asked, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He studied the pattern on his quilt. "They're saying things about me."

"Who?"

"The kids at school."

"What sort of things?"

"The sort of things they said before I started school. They say I'm strange, our family is strange. They say their parents talk about our parents."

"Oh really? And what is supposed to be so strange about us?"

"They talk about Dad's drawings."

"His drawings are wonderful," she said, smoothing the quilt. "I know they are," he said, "but they say we have too much money. They say he doesn't really do anything for the money we have."

"That's just not true. He works very hard creating his art. And you know, he didn't always get paid so much for it or even at all. When he met your mother he didn't have more than $10 in the whole world."

"That's a lot of money."

Stella chuckled quietly. "It isn't really. And you shouldn't listen to what other people say. You know what they used to say about me?"

...

Rose was still writing when Jack came downstairs an hour later. The fire was dying down and a slight chill was in the air_, _but she didn't seem to notice. She was bent forward, a look of pure concentration of her face. "Hey," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "You gonna come to bed?"

"I'll be up soon...I just need to..." She bit her lip. "I can't get this part to come out right."

"Don't force it. Leave it until in the morning, honey."

"Maybe..." She closed the book. "I don't know why I'm bothering. I sent out my second manuscript six months ago, and I haven't heard anything." Jack took her hand and helped her to her feet. "I'm sure you'll hear back soon," he said.

"And it will be what I heard with the first one."

"Oh, I doubt that," he said, holding back a smile. "I really do."


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks everyone for reviewing! And JluckyJ deserves credit for something that happens at the end.

Stella woke the next morning to the smell of bacon frying. She smiled and stretched her arms over her head. Jack was cooking breakfast. She was home. The first thing she heard when she rounded the corner that led to the kitchen was Monica. The little girl was chattering away, barely pausing for someone else to comment before launching into another thought. At almost seven she already had the kind of self confidence that leaves an indelible impression on anyone it comes into contact with.

Jack stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up to elbow, flipping a pancake with a quick flick of his wrist. Anthony sat next to Monica; his blue-green eyes were fixed on her. She gestured when she spoke, and the more excited she became the faster she moved. Rose was at the other end of the table writing on a stack of typed pages. "Morning," Jack said. He flipped the pancake out of the frying pan and onto a plate. "Hungry?"

"Famished," Stella said, dropping into the empty chair next to Monica. "How did you sleep?" Rose asked."I haven't slept like that in months!" Stellal said. She poured a glass of orange juice. "I didn't even think I was that tired last night, but the second I lay down that was it." She drained the glass in one gulp. Orange juice had never tasted better.

Jack set a plate of pancakes in the middle of the table followed by a plate of bacon. "Rose does that," he said. "She says she isn't tired, but the minute I get her in bed she's asleep." He smiled across the table at her. "Sometimes I think she'd stay up all night writing if I wasn't here to pester her about sleeping."

"I could say the same thing about you and drawing," Rose said, returning the smile. "Or drawing. Or developing photographs."

"I work in the morning," Jack pointed out.

"Touche."

"French so early in the morning?" Stella said. "I remember when it took until at least noon for that to start."

"She's right," Rose said. "Italian is the morning language." Monica immediately switched to Italian. "And you speak it very well," Rose added. "But why don't you take a breath and eat your breakfast?"

"You know what's nice?" Stella said. "Not having to wear that dress for a few days!"

"But it's so pretty!" Monica said, aghast. "It is until you have to wear it everyday," Stella said. "And all the other girls are wearing the same thing. It's a sea of white. Some days I'm sure I'll get lost."

"That doesn't sound like much fun at all," Monica said. She turned to Jack. "I changed my mind. I'll just go to Paris after high school." He stifled a laugh. Rose, is that what you were like? "Okay," he said. "If that's what you want."

"I do," she said firmly. "That's where all the great artists go."

"You sure about that? Some don't ever leave America."

"Well," she said without missing a beat, "it's where you went."

...

The snow had continued throughout the night, and by the next morning there was two feet on the gound. Stella stayed next to the fire with a book, but Monica and Anthony raced outside without a thought about the cold, leaving Rose chasing after them with warnings about hats and mittens. "They'll be fine," Jack said. "I always forget my mittens when I was a kid."

"And you call yourself an artist?" Rose said in mock horror. He gave her a puzzled look. "Yeah...But not then so much." She picked up his hand. "But don't artists need good hands? I can't imagine Monsieur Monet getting frost bite playing in the snow." He moved closer to her, a grin spreading across his face. He took on an exaggerated French accent. "His landscapes don't really include snow." Their lips were inches apart. "And you don't do landscapes," she said, "Right? It's the...human side of things that fascinates you." His lips brushed hers. "Right..."

"Mama!" Monica called. "Daddy!" They turned toward the sound. She stood next to a waist-high snowball. Anthony was on the other side adding more snow. "We can't get it big enough!"

"We're comin," Jack called back. He gave Rose a quick kiss on the cheek. "And we're finishing this later," he murmured. "What is there to finish?" she giggled. "Oh, you'll see, " he promised. "Is that so? Well, you'll have to catch me!" she cried, breaking into a run.

Monica and Anthony watched them chase each other through the snow. Rose disappeared behind a tree as Jack stopped to catch his breath. "Ro-" An icy hand slapped the back of his neck. His eyes widened. "Again?" he cried, laughing. He leaned forward and shook the collar of his coat, but the snow was already melting down his back. Rose appeared at his side, grinning impishly. "I couldn't resist. I'm sorry."

"They're worse than children sometimes," Monica said. "I like it," Anthony said. "They have fun together." Monica considered his words. "Yeah, I guess they do, but doesn't it seem like they're not supposed to?"

"Because of what people say?" He picked up a handful of snow and began rolling it into a ball. "Maybe we're not supposed to care about that."

"I don't care!" she insisted. "I just..."

"Want them to like you."

"How else will I get to be a famous artist?"

Jack and Rose walked over before he could answer. "Okay," Jack said. "What are we building?"

"A snowman," they answered in unison.

"So I need one of you here and one of you there..."

It was late afternoon before Rose could finally herd her family back into the house. Even Jack's face was red and his fingers numb, but he fought just as hard as the children to stay outside. Seeing that Rose was adamant, he put a hand on each of the children's heads and said, "It'll be here tomorrow."

"You must have driven your mother out of her mind," Rose said when they were inside. "Snow was a bit easier to come by when I was a kid," he said. "But that didn't stop me from trying to live outside. I loved running around those woods," he added wistfully. Rose finished unwinding his scarf for him. "Did you ever think about going back?" He shook his head. "No. No, I...No."

"You-" She was cut off by a tugging on her hand. She looked down into Anthony's face. "I can't get the knot in my shoe strings untied," he said. "I'll help you," Jack said. Rose waved him away. "I'll do it. You go upstairs and put on some dry clothes."

...

_December 24th_

Monica bounced excitedly. "Can I put the icing on?" Jack handed her a spoon. "You can put the icing on those." He handed a second spoon to Anthony. "And you can put the icing on these." He looked up at his father and smiled. "Can I do it however I want." Jack nodded. "However you want."

"I'm making mine pretty," Monica announced. "What kind of pretty?" Anthony asked. She dipped her spoon into the bowl of icing. "What do you mean? There's only one kind of pretty." Jack picked up a spoon of his own. "That's not true," he said. "There are lotsa different kinds." He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were an artist."

"I am."

"Then you have to know about this." He picked up a star-shaped cookie and began carefully spreading icing across it. "Different art is good for different reasons. Some of it's pretty, but some of it makes you feel like you've been punched in the gut everytime you look at it."

"Like Mama?" Anthony asked.

"Exactly like her," Jack said just as she appeared in the doorway. "Exactly like whom?" she asked. She surveyed the tableful of cookies. "You three have been busy!"

"I cracked the eggs," Anthony said. She ruffled his hair. "That's my favorite part." Not to be outdone Monica said, "I helped make the shapes."

"We both did that."

"And I'm sure you've both done a wonderful job," Rose said. "Have one!" Monica said. "Oh no." Rose shook her head. "Not until they're finished." Her eyes fell on the cookie in Jack's hand. "Why aren't there any other stars?"

"This is a special star," he said.

That night it took an extra half hour to get the children to bed. Even Stella couldn't coax them to go upstairs. Finally Jack swung them both over his shoulder and carried them off. "Sometimes he's worse than both of them together," Rose laughed. "He really loves them," Stella said. "Oh, I know he does," Rose said. "He's the father I always knew he would be."

"You know what Monica asked me today?"

"Do I want to know?"

"She asked what he meant when he said looking at you made him feel like he'd been punched in the gut."

Rose burst out laughing. "Why would he say something like that?"

"Maybe cause it's true." Jack planted a kiss on the top of Rose's head. She twisted around in her chair. "That's an odd way to feel."

"I was explaining the different reactions art can produce."

"And I just happened to be an example?"

"I wouldn't say just happened to be."

"I've missed this," Stella said. "So much, actually. But I'm afraid it's time for me to go to bed."

When her step had faded on the stairs Jack leaned over the back of Rose's chair. His mouth against her ear he said, "Want your present now?" She held in a grin. "I can have it now?" His cheek lightly rubbed against hers as he nodded. "Then yes, I want it!"

"C'mere," Jack said, taking her hand. He led her to a spot in front of the fire. She held her breath as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a black box. She opened it tentatively. "Jack!" she gasped. "It's beautiful!"

"I hoped you'd like it."

"I love it." She carefully picked up the necklace. It gleamed in her hand. It was a thin silver chain with a small star pendant. The star was made of intricately laced sliver; the points were topped with tiny sapphires. "When I saw it I thought of you," he said. He placed it around her neck. "Beautiful and delicate looking but really it's strong." Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. "Thank you," she said. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you so much. For everything."

"You've had a hand in everything," he said. He kissed her. "I couldn'tve married you if you hadn't come fly with me. And I definitely couldn't have made two babies by myself," he added with a grin. She hugged him tightly. "You know what I meant."

...

Monica and Anthony burst into their room at dawn. Still rubbing sleep from their eyes Jack and Rose followed them downstairs where Stella was already waiting with steaming mugs of cocoa. As soon as the children were handed their gifts they tore into them. Monica's eyes were the size of saucers when she discovered an oil paint set in her box. But it was Anthony who jumped to his feet and cried out with excitement when he opened his box and a puppy stuck its nose into his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thanks to everyone for reviewing!**

"C'mon," Jack said, "time to go inside." Anthony and Monica opened their mouths to protest. "None of that," he added. "Your mother's not going to be happy we were out here this long." He whistled and Oliver, as the puppy had come to be called, ran up to him, wagging his tail. "See, he knows it's time to go in."

"Dad, will teach me how to do that?" Anthony asked. "Sure, I will," Jack said. "Later though." Monica tugged at his sleeve. "And me?" she said. You'll show me too, right?" Jack laughed. "I'll show you both," he said. "But only if you get in the house before your mother kills me."

"Oh, she wouldn't do that," Monica said confidently.

"You sure about that?"

"I know for a fact you're her best friend."

"And where did you hear this?" Jack asked. "She was listening to Mama talk to the the ladies in town," Anthony said. Monica shot him a look. "I wasn't _listening_," she said. "I overheard a conversation that was going on. There's nothing wrong with that." She looked up at Jack. "Is there?"

"Even if you can't help hearing what's said you shouldn't repeat it," Jack said. "She might not've ever wanted anyone else to know that. And even if she did, she didn't tell you. Understand?" Monica nodded. "Yeah, I understand. Be quiet about what I hear." Jack reached down and gave her a quick squeeze. "Something like that, yeah. But you should try not to listen at all."

"I don't say _every_thing I hear," she said. "And I hear a lot."

"I'm sure you do. You hear what I hear right now?"

"You hear something?"

"I don't hear anything," Anthony said. Jack's foreheard wrinkled. "Really? Neither of you hear that?" They shook their heads. "I coulda sworn the bathtub was calling you both."

"It wasn't," Monica said quickly. "We had baths two days ago," Anthony chimed in. "And we haven't gotten dirty," Monica said. "It's cold."

"You sure? Cause I still hear it," Jack said. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Yeah, I hear it. It's gettin louder." He laid a hand on each of their heads. "You," he said, looking at Monica. His eyes moved to Anthony. "And then you. Take Oliver in too if you want." The small boy's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Don't tell your mother."

"Don't tell me what?" Rose said. Jack turned around as the children ran up the stairs. "That she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," he said with a grin. "And I can't imagine life without her." Rose rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh," she said, breaking into a grin of her own. "That all you could come up with?" He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "I thought it was pretty good." She tilted her head up. "Oh, you did?" she teased. "And where did our children run off to so quickly?"

"To take baths."

"Why is it so much easier for you to get them to do that? They always fight me. Of course," she added, wrapping her arms around Jack's neck, "I've never told either of them they could take the dog into the bath."

"Heard that, huh?"

She nodded. "Heard that." He leaned forward so their foreheads were touching. "You wouldn't get mad at your best friend, would ya?" She stared at him for a moment before she burst out laughing. "And who said you were my best friend? Not that you aren't."

"That would be our daughter who heard you telling someone else."

"What are we going to do with that girl?" Rose said, shaking her head. "She listens to everything. She isn't afraid of anything."

"Well, the first one could be a problem, but I don't see anything wrong with the second one. She _shouldn't_ be afraid of anything. Neither of them should."

"I don't want them to be afraid, but I don't want them having unrealistic ideas about what they can do either. Monica is just a little girl. I don't want her learning the hard way that there are some things..." She sighed. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"Sounds to me like you're trying to say you don't want your children to be hurt. I don't want that either." He kissed her forehead. "And it won't happen. Trust me."

...

"I got the mail," Jack called. He let the door fall shut behind him. "Rose?" No answer. He did a quick sweep of the first floor before coming back to the library. "Rose honey, where are ya?" Just then the back door slammed. "Jack?" Rose called happily. "Are you back?"

"In here."

She appeared in the doorway a moment later. "There you are," she said.. "There _I_ am?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Where were _you _on this cold, cold morning?"

"I was having trouble with a sentence so I went for a walk to clear my head." She sat down next to the fire. She leaned against the arm of the couch and spread her legs across it.. "And you're right. It's freezing out there." He lifted her legs and sat down next to her. "Even you're feet are cold," he said. She wiggled her toes. "Warm them for me?"

"I got the mail after I took the kids to school," he said.

"Oh? Anything interesting? And didn't Stella go with you?"

"Left her at the library. She finished that bag of books she brought. If you can believe it."

"I'm surprised she didn't finish sooner actually. I remember the day she announced she had read every book in the house." Rose laughed. "That seems so long ago. And now she's off on her own at college, and the other two...When did they stop being babies, Jack?"

"Got me."

"Do you ever wish we had another?"

"Baby?" She nodded. "I haven't really thought about it," he said. "I wouldn't-wait, this isn't your way of telling me you're pregnant is it?"

"No! I was just curious."

"Do you wish we did?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "I think about it sometimes. Not often, just sometimes. I like things the way they are right now. I like that we have time alone together again. If we had another baby it would be a few years before we could just sit together like this again. And the two we have..."

Jack chuckled. "They're a handful."

"That's one way to put it." Rose smiled to herself. "I love them though." He laid his head on her knees. "Me too." They might have stay that way for the rest of the day had the phone not rang. "I'll go," Rose said.

Jack couldn't help but smile when he heard her refer to herself as "Mrs. Dawson". Even after ten years he still couldn't quite believe she was his wife. "Yes," he heard her say. "Yes, I understand." Her voice was tense. "I don't know why this would have happened. I...Yes," she said again. "I do understand. We'll be there soon."

"What happened?" Jack asked. She didn't answer. She just stood there staring at the phone receiver still in her hand. "Rose?" He touched her shoulder. "It's Anthony," she said softly.


	4. Chapter 4

"I don't understand," Rose said. "You're saying our son attacked this other boy, for _no_ reason at all?" She cocked her head to one side. When she spoke again it was in a clipped, slightly aristocratic tone. "Forgive me, but I simply cannot see the logic in that. Furthermore, I know my son very well, and he is not the type of boy who hurts other for the sheer delight of it."

James Prescott leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him on his desk. "I know how you feel Mrs. Dawson," he said in a thick Georgia accent. "But the fact is we have two boys, one that's bruised and bloodied and one that isn't, and the one that isn't is your son Anthony. Now, when I asked him why he did it he wouldn't say anything."

"Don't presume that you know how I feel, Mr. Prescott," Rose said, lifting her chin. She knew she was on the verge of being rude, but she didn't care. _How dare he call us in here, no explanation, and accuse my son—_ James's voice broke through her thoughts. "I apologize, Mrs. Dawson," he said, darting a glance at Jack. His expression was unreadable, but James was certain there was anger lurking beneath the surface. _And if half the things I've heard about him are true…_ "I am, however, at a loss. The only thing I can see to do is discipline your son. We cannot be having these types of situations. I know that boys tend to be rather aggressive, and at times what starts out as friendly roughhousing becomes something else entirely, but—"

"Some boys aren't aggressive at all," Jack interrupted.

"What?"

"Some boys—some men, for that matter—aren't aggressive," Jack said. "They don't fight for no reason, and they know the difference between having some fun with their friends and fighting with them." Rose reached over and took his hand. He offered her a half smile. "I know that might sound unusual," he went on, "but it does happen. And I'm not sayin Anthony didn't hit this kid—it's pretty clear that he did—but he didn't do it without a reason. And I'd like to know what that reason is."

"And what do you propose be done?" James said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Let us talk to him for a minute," Jack said. "Just to see if he'll tell us why this happened."

"Fine," James said. He moved to stand up. "I'll have him brought in." As far as he was concerned the sooner he got these uppity Yankees out of his office the better—especially Rose. Everything his wife had told him about her was true. _But she is a damn good looking woman,_ he thought as he stepped out the door.

Anthony walked in slowly with his head down. He glanced up at his parents' faces as he took the chair next to the door, but they offered no clue as to his fate. "What happened?" Rose asked. He stared at a crack in the floor. "I hit Sam," he said. "Yes, we know that," Jack said. "You hit him a few times based on what your principal told us." Anthony nodded and dug the tip of his foot into the crack. "Why'd you do that?" Jack said. "And don't lie to us like you did that Prescott guy."

"He said stuff," Anthony muttered.

"What kinda stuff?"

Anthony began to trace a pattern on the floor with his foot. "Tell us," Rose said. He didn't respond. "Anthony Jack Dawson—" she began. "Stuff about you," he said quietly. Jack and Rose exchanged shocked glances. "What do you mean?" she said. "He was sayin stuff about our family, about how weird we are," Anthony said. "He and some of the other kids were sayin that Dad doesn't have a real job, and we have too much money." He raised his head. "But we don't have that much money, do we?"

"We…we're not poor," Jack said slowly. "But we're not rich," Anthony said. Jack and Rose looked at each other. "Are we?" Anthony pressed. "Well, it's more complex than that," Rose said. "Your father has made a great deal of money with his art, and so yes, in a sense we are rich, but we…" She searched for the right words. "We don't act rich?" Anthony said. "That's right," Rose said.

"Why not? Why don't we act rich?"

"Well, we don't feel it's important to throw money around," Jack said. "I didn't become an artist to make money. That just happened. I didn't plan it. And you know, money's not important."

"I know it isn't," Anthony said. "But everyone else says it is. They say if we're rich we should live with the rich people. Monica and me should go to the private school. We shouldn't act like we're just like everyone else."

"Do you feel like you're different from the other children?" Rose said. "Would you rather we sent you—"

"No!" Anthony cried. "I mean, I feel different, but I don't want to leave. I don't try to be different or anything. I just am. I don't do the same kinds of things the kids with money do, and they don't like me. But the other kids don't like me either."

"What about Monica?" Jack asked. "They says this to her too?"

"Not as much. She tries to pretend she's like everyone else. She wants them to like her." He wanted to stop talking, but it was as if a door had been opened that he couldn't close. Suddenly everything that had been happening to him at school came pouring out. When he was finally finished he sighed, more with relief than anything else, and leaned back in his chair. He didn't know what was going to happen next, but he felt better now that the secrets were out.

"Why don't you go back outside and tell Mr. Prescott to come in," Rose said. "We need to talk to him." Anthony nodded. He stood up and turned toward the door. "Are you angry?" he asked over his shoulder. "That I hit Sam?" 

"We're not angry that you defended yourself and your family," Jack said. "But you can't go around hitting people. You know that, right?"

"Some people say boys are supposed to hit each other."

"Those people are wrong," Jack said firmly. "Hitting someone else doesn't make you a stronger person. It doesn't make you a man. But you'll probably have to hit a few more people in your life. Some people won't accept anything else. But don't you go seeking fights out. That's not the way to prove you're strong. And don't you _ever_ hit a girl."

…

James strode into the room determined to reclaim his rightful position as the authority figure, but one look at Jack and Rose's faces and his determination deflated like a balloon. "Did you have any luck with him?" he asked, sitting down. "In fact we did," Rose said. "And what we found out was rather interesting. It seems the other boy, Sam, provoked Anthony."

"Well, boys will be boys," James said. "These things do happen. We can't force them all to get along."

"No," Rose said, "you can't, but it isn't fair to punish Anthony and not the other boy. They both played a role in what happened."

James sighed. "How about I make them both stay after school for a few days? Would that satisfy you?"

"Do whatever's supposed to be done in this kind of situation," Jack said. "Just make sure it happens to both of them."

James locked the door behind them. He sank into his chair with a heavy sigh. "Crazy people….damn Yankees," he muttered. "No reason to get so riled up. You'd think that fellow never threw a punch or two of his own. And her…." He shook his head. "Damn good lookin woman though."

…..

There was a new layer of tension in the house that evening. Monica didn't talk to Anthony, and she avoided even looking at him. Anthony tried his best to behave as though nothing unusual was going on, but the silence from his sister made it difficult. Stella filled in the gaps in conversation herself until it became too awkward. Jack and Rose were mostly quiet. After dinner Jack headed up to the attic, and after a few minutes of fidgeting on the couch, Rose followed.

"Do you mind if I come up?" she asked. He shook his head. His feet were bare, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. He sat at the table on the left side of the room sharpening charcoal pencils. "Of course not," he said, smiling. She sat down in the chair opposite his. "Jack, we need to talk about what happened today."

"Yeah, I know."

"What should we do?"

"To be honest Rose, I don't know. I mean, we've been avoiding situations like this for years. We pretty much destroyed our chance to get in with—" He took on a mock upper class accent. "—Respectable society when we turned down those invitations from the Countess."

"We couldn't very well have taken two babies to Boston in the middle of winter just because—"

"Honey, I know that," he said, laughing softly. "I'm just sayin, we're not part of that world, and we never have been. It's kinda weird to be accused of it." He looked thoughtful. "You know, I remember when we started trying to sell painting because they were taking up too much space in that two rooms we had. Doesn't seem like it was that long ago." He looked around. "How did we get all this?"

"It all happened so quickly," Rose said. "We woke up one morning and you were famous." She smiled. "The world finally saw how gifted you are." He returned the smile. "I'm still waitin for it to end, but in the meantime what do we do about those kids of ours?"


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I'm sorry this has taken forever. My computer died, completely died, and I've had a lovely time trying to either fix it or get a new one. **

Stella looked up as her door creaked open. Monica stopped, her hand still on the knob. "You're reading," she said, moving to take a step back. "I'll come back—" Stella closed the book. "Nonsense," she said. "I'm always reading." She scooted to the corner of the window seat. "Come sit down."

Monica swung her feet back and forth. Her curls hung limply around her small face. "Stella," she said finally, a note of resignation in her voice, "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Is it—do you think—should I not try to be liked?"

Stella had known what was coming. Anthony had already asked a similar question earlier that night, but his had been much easier to answer. "Darling, it is isn't that simple," she said slowly. "No-one wants you to be unpopular, least of all your brother."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Well, it seems to be that everyone would be a lot happier if I were more like him. But what I don't understand is why no-one thinks he should be like me." The resignation in her voice gave way to annoyance. "Why should I have to change? I'm not the one people don't like. There's nothing wrong with _me." _

"Who said there is? I know Jack and Rose don't think that, and I certainly don't."

"No-one's really said it," Monica said, "but I know that's what they're thinking. They think it would be easier if we were more alike so that way if there were problems at least there would be problems with both of us."

"I think they knew there would be problems of some sort before they had children," Stella said kindly. "They just didn't know what exactly." Monica looked unconvinced. "Fine. Don't believe me. Ask them if you'd rather."

"No. I'll believe you. But you didn't answer my question."

"I guess I didn't, did I? Well, you see darling, it isn't that there's something wrong with your wanting to be popular. No-one wants to be disliked or left out of things. You don't imagine Anthony wants that, do you?" Monica shook her head. "But he doesn't try not to be either," she said. "Perhaps," Stella suggested, "he doesn't think there's anything he can do about it. Or perhaps he doesn't care." Monica's eyes widened. "It's possible," Stella added. "Neither of your parents cares too much about fitting into a mold."

"It doesn't count the same for them," Monica said dismissively.

"And why not?"

"Mama's pretty and Dad's famous." Monica shrugged. "They don't need to care about what people think."

Stella couldn't believe her ears. _She's talking more like Rose's mother than her daughter. _But hadn't she always heard some traits skipped a generation? _She shouldn't be thinking like this,_ Stella thought. _I wonder if—Wait, of course they know. How could they not? _"Monica, you know your father wasn't always famous. When he was my age he was so poor he slept under bridges. No-one knew who he was. He was lucky if he sold a drawing for a dime. But he got along just fine. And your mother gave up the good opinion of just about everyone she had ever known when she married him."

"Oh, but that's romantic," Monica said dreamily. "She's like the princess in the story." Stella smiled to herself. The fairytale version of Jack and Rose's meeting had eventually expanded into a three part saga. He was working on the fourth part. At least once a week he told Monica and Anthony another story about them. "Yes, I suppose she is," Stella said. "But you don't think romance was the only reason she married him? That won't last."

"Oh it will," Monica said confidently. "If it's real. Like Mama and Dad."

"Fine. But you still haven't told me why they didn't need to care back then. Sure, it was romantic at first, but what if your mother had missed her old life?"

"But she didn't. And why would she? She and Dad were running all around and having fun. And then he got famous when Uncle Maxwell bought one of his drawings and realized he was a genius."

Suddenly Stella realized she was trying to reason with a seven year old, a very smart, very precocious seven year old, but a seven year old nonetheless. And yet she pressed on. "That's true," she said. "They were very happy together before any of Jack's success. And do you know why?" Monica nodded slowly. "Tell me then."

"Because they were in love," Monica said matter-of-factly. "And that's all that mattered." Her eyes widened. "Oh," she said softly. "I think I see what you're saying. They couldn't have fallen in love if they'd cared what people said about them. But Stella, what if some of the things people say are true?"

"Such as?"

"Well..." Monica squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. Stella would tell her the truth; she always did. And that was the problem. "Like some people say we're weird." Stella held in a laugh. "Darling, your father's a famous artist, and your mother's a debutante turned aspiring writer. I think people might be justified in thinking this family is a bit unusual."

"It isn't just that. They say the way Mama and Dad act is weird. Dad does all the woman's work, and he doesn't have a regular job like the other dads."

"Do you want him to have a regular job? I thought you liked artists. Aren't you going to be one?"

"Yeah, but….but can't he be an artist and still act like a regular dad?"

Stella sighed. "And what would that be? Do you want him to stop telling you stories? Stop running around outside with you? Stop making those fried green tomatoes you like so much?" Monica frowned. "No. But he isn't supposed to do those things, is he? Mama's supposed to do them."

"Says whom?"

"Everyone."

Stella put her hand on Monica's head. "Darling, sometimes everyone just happens to be wrong. You're too young to fully understand, but the way we live is just fine. The problem is with the people who are too afraid to be different, not Jack and Rose, or you, or your brother, or me. Don't listen to what other people say. You're a wonderful little girl, and you have the best parents anyone could ask for. The other children should be so lucky."

….

Jack didn't notice Rose come in. He was too engrossed in his work to hear the loud squeak the attic door made when she closed it. Rose just stood for a moment watching him. His feet were bare. His shirt was unbuttoned and untucked, exposing a well-defined chest. He hadn't quite lost his summer tan yet. His pants were old and paintstained. He stared at the canvas with a look of pure concentration, the brush all but forgotten in his hand. Green paint dripped onto his foot, but he didn't appear to notice.

"You never came to bed," Rose said, pressing her face against his back and hugging him. "Sorry," he said, putting his free hand over hers. "I guess I got caught up in this." He looked at her over his shoulder. "You alright?" She nodded. "I was just lonely. It's an awfully big bed without you there." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "How late is it?"

"It's a little past one."

"Shit. I didn't think it was _that_ late."

"Was the painting going well? Before, I so rudely interrupted, that is?"

Jack dipped his brush in a bucket of water and swirled it around. "It was going," he said. 'To tell you the truth I've mostly just been standing around looking at the canvases." He sighed. "I'm not sure why," he said, drying the brush with a small cloth. "Usually it's so easy. I don't even have to try. They almost paint themselves."

"Maybe," Rose said, walking toward him slowly, "You need to try painting something else." There was a familiar look in her green eyes, but he didn't fully comprehend it until her hand was on his bare chest. "And what would you suggest I paint?" he asked, making sure to sound nonchalant.

"Paint me."

He nodded. "I could do that," he said. His eyes moved over her, a scene already forming in his mind. "No, Jack," she said, running her fingers down his chest. He resisted the urge to shiver when she hooked her hand into the top of his pants. "Paint _me_."

….

The paint was cold on her skin, but Rose didn't move. Jack glanced at her face; his artist's eyes took in everything, even with a thin wall of blonde hair hanging over them. "No blushing," he said. "You asked for this."

"I know." She held her breath as he painted first a vine curving up and around one leg and then the other. Rose blossoms threatened to fall from it, or at least, that's how it looked to Rose. Everything Jack painted or drew was always so lifelike; there were times when she expected the people in his work to start talking. He stopped when he reached her stomach. "Want me to keep going?"

"You aren't finished, are you?" she teased. His mouth twitched as he held in a grin. "No, miss," he said. "I'm not finished. In fact, this could take the rest of the night."

"Then I suggest you get back to work."

Rose's skin was the perfect canvas. After a few minutes he forgot it was her stomach he was painting, forgot how soft she was. He stopped noticing the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. He was wholly absorbed by his craft.

"I do believe you are turning me into a landscape," she said. "I can't imagine you doing a landscape."

"This isn't a landscape. It's what I'd like to cover you in." His eyes were dark. "No thorns, ya see."

"Whatever could you do with a naked woman covered in roses?" she asked. Her heart sped up. Her legs twitched. He wasn't touching her anymore, not even with the brush, and yet she could feel his hands everywhere. She sucked in her breath as he bent down; their faces were almost touching. "I've always wanted to make love to you in a pile of rose petals," he whispered. He brushed his lips across hers. "This is the next best thing."

And then his hands were on her. "Jack," she sighed. She grabbed his shirt and tried to push it off him. He straightened up and shrugged out of it. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he bent down to kiss her. She reached between then and found the buttons on his pants. A moment later they were being tossed across the room. Jack had never wanted to lick a rose petal as much as he did the ones covering her body. He used watercolor paint and it had mostly dried already, though he wouldn't have noticed if it hadn't.

They moved quickly, kissing furiously, their hands exploring as though they had never made love before. "You taste like a rose petal," Jack whispered into her thigh. His breath was coming in gasps. "I can't believe I didn't realize before." Rose ran her fingers through his hair. It was damp with sweat. Her legs were shaking. "Come here," she said, making an effort to speak normally. He didn't need to be told twice.

"That was amazing," Jack said. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her neck. She tightened her embrace. "It was. I can't believe we've never thought of that before."

"Maybe you should paint me next time," he said. Rose chuckled softly. "'I won't forget that."

…..

Jack lay awake long after Rose fell asleep. His mind just wouldn't clear long enough for him to truly relax. Their lovemaking had given him a brief respite, but that was it. Now all his worries were crowding into his brain again. Were the children really alright? What were they hearing from people? He didn't care what was said about him, but he couldn't stand the thought of someone talking badly about Rose. And finally, lurking at the bottom of the list like always, would his success last? And what would happen if it didn't? Could he really go back to being nobody? Could he go back to being poor?

_You wouldn't be poor. You've got plenty of money put aside. _

But would it last? They had children now. They couldn't survive on the $3 a week they once had. Jack sighed. Carefully so as not to wake her up he untangled his body from Rose's. She rolled onto her side and wrapped her arms around herself. He grabbed an empty canvas from the floor and put it on the easel. If he was going to be awake he might as well get some work done.


	6. Chapter 6

Rose rolled over with a soft sigh. "Jack…." Her hand met the cold wooden floor. She frowned, her eyes still closed. That wasn't right. Where was the bed? "Jack?" She raised her head and opened her eyes. A sheet covered her or part of her, anyway. It was twisted around her legs and stopped just above her hips. She didn't know where it had come from. The same was true of the pillow that had been placed under her head.

"I can't persuade ya to stay still, can I?" Jack said. He stood off to the right, an easel set up in front of him and a paintbrush in his hand. He was naked. "Do you paint naked often?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light. She had seen Jack's body more times than she could ever hope to count in the ten years they had been together and yet it still made her heart beat faster. He had only improved with age.

"This is the first time," he said with a grin. "I think I might start though. Less paint stained clothes."

Rose pulled the sheet up over herself and sat up. "But you'll still have paint on yourself," she pointed out. "Then we'll match," he teased. "Only mine won't be as pretty." Her cheeks reddened. "I can't believe I asked you to do that. I don't know where that came from." Laughing, she shook her head. "What would people think of me?"

"You know I think that's a question we've all been asking too much lately." Jack's expression suddenly became serious. He kept his eyes trained on the painting in front of him. "I'm not so sure it matters what anyone would think." He carefully blended the colors to create the exact shade of her hair. "And I'll love ya no matter what," he added, his grin returning.

"This is about the children," she said. He didn't answer. "Jack, we have to talk about it." She tied the sheet so it hung on her like a large toga and moved over to him. "It won't resolve itself."

"Yeah, I know," he said. "But what are we supposed to do about it? Change? Move? We can't make people stop talking, and we can't stop the children from hearing what gets said."

"People would talk no matter what we did or where we went," she said. "We seem to have a knack for attracting attention."

"That we do." He reached behind him and dipped the paintbrush in a glass of water. "And we do it all without trying. Can you imagine what kind of rumors we could get going if we wanted to?"

"Oh, I don't want to know! I'm not sure I can even imagine anything worse than what's already been said. I'm just glad Monica isn't old enough to remember all those newspaper articles," she said. His eyes were heavy. "So am I." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "They'll be fine. We can't protect them from every bad thing in the world no matter how much we want to. And even if we could keep them from hearing what's said about us, would that be the right thing to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would we be protecting them or harming them?" she explained. "Would it be worse for them to grow up sheltered only to have their image of the world shattered when they're older? I remember what it was like when I discovered everyone didn't live like I did, when I found out there were some children who didn't even have food everyday let alone a different dress for every activity. I didn't know what to do with myself. I demanded Mother give away all my things immediately."

"How'd she take that?"

"How do you think?" Rose said drily. "Though I suppose my marrying you shouldn't have been such a great shock." Jack laughed. He dropped the brush into the water and looped his arm around her waist. "I'm not sure she'll ever quite get over that," he said, pulling her closer.

...

Rose couldn't remember the last time she had slept so heavily. Her muscles felt like they had been replaced with thick syrup. Her mouth was dry; her pillow was damp with what could only be drool. She was on her stomach, hugging the pillow. The blankets had been tucked around her. She could tell Jack was gone without looking. The clock on the bedside table said _12:30_. "Damn," she muttered before rolling over and out of the bed. The floor was cold under her bare feet. "Damn," she said again, louder this time.

Showered and dressed she hurried downstairs, suddenly eager to start the day. The smell of coffee led her to the kitchen. Jack sat at the table, the day's mail in a stack in front of him. Stella was next to him underlining a passage in a book. He looked up when she came in. "Hey," he said happily. "Thought you'd sleep all day."

"I don't know what happened," Rose said, sitting down in the nearest empty chair. "My head feels like it's in a fog. I didn't think I was that tired." Jack set a steaming cup of coffee down in front of her. "Really? I thought you would be," he teased. "Why?" she said, her eyes laughing. "You aren't."

Stella held in a smile. Jack and Rose's banter was just one of the things she missed when she was away at school. Their code had been easy to crack since she was 14 and first realized just what they were teasing each other about over breakfast, but she would never tell them that. She suspected Jack knew already anyway and wouldn't have been surprised if Rose did as well. Of course, that didn't mean she wasn't sometimes curious about what went on when they were alone, especially when Rose came in with rose blossoms painted on her neck.

_If Monica understood how much they love each other,_ she thought. _If she really understood how incredible the odds against them were she wouldn't think twice about what those old gossips say. _The little girl understood the romance of it all just fine, but the potential consequences of the romance were still beyond her. _But I can't really expect more of her, can I? She's only a little girl. _But Stella couldn't help comparing Monica to herself. She knew it was wrong and unfair; there was nothing comparable about their childhoods. She couldn't expect Monica to be anything close to the way she was at that age. But a part of her wished she could be, if only just enough to appreciate having Jack and Rose as parents.

"You're awfully quiet," Rose said. Stella smiled. "Just thinking." She closed her book without bothering to look at the page number. "It's almost time to head back to school," she added, her smile dimming slightly. "Oh, but that's exciting!" Rose said. "I suppose it is," Stella agreed. "And the girls there love all the things about me that made me so unpopular before." She chuckled softly. "Studying is almost a sport for some of them."

"That sounds much better than the schools I went to," Rose said. She took a sip of her coffee. "Being too excited about studying was quite frowned upon," she explained. "We were only supposed to be smart enough to keep our husbands from being bored when they talked to us, but anything beyond that was most unbecoming a lady." Jack rolled his eyes. "I saw that," Rose said, smiling over the rim of her coffee cup. "Do you have an opinion you'd wish to share, Mr. Dawson?"

"Just that I can't imagine how dull it must be to have a wife like that."

"Think about how bored the wife would be," Stella said. "Oh, I don't think she'd be too bored," Rose said. "If that was all she knew she might be happy. It's the ones who see there's something more to life that end up unhappy."

"I could never marry a man who didn't value my intelligence," Stella said. She got up and poured herself another cup of coffee. "How could such a relationship work? It seems asinine to even think about." Shaking her head she sat back down. "Or maybe I'm being unrealistic."

"No," Jack said. "You're not."

"I've already heard from more than a few people that if I'm not careful I'll have a difficult time finding a husband," Stella said. She snorted. "As though I couldn't get along without one. It's just absurd the way some people think."

"It is," Rose said. "But I doubt you'll end up alone, and you're still far too young to even be thinking about such things."

"You were already married when you were my age," Stella pointed out. "She's right," Jack said. Rose pursued her lips. "That was different." Jack leaned back in his chair. "Oh, was it?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "If I hadn't married you when I did who knows where you would've ended up," Rose said matter-of-factly. "It was for your own good really." Jack laughed. Rose bit her lip, but a moment later she was laughing too.

"You're both profoundly silly sometimes," Stella said. But she wouldn't have changed them for the world.

…..

Rose frowned. She wrung the washcloth out and leaned toward the mirror. "It just has to wash off," she muttered. "It's watercolor. It shouldn't be this difficult…" But she scrubbed until her skin was red and still the flowers refused to even fade. "Well, I suppose this is a sign that Jack's art will last forever," she said. She hung the cloth on the towel rack. "And a sign that I should keep some of my ideas to myself."

The phone was ringing when she started down the stairs. She grabbed it on the last ring. "Hello?" she said breathlessly. A crisp Southern accent greeted her. "Mrs. Dawson?"

"Yes, this is she. May I ask who is calling?"

"This is Edna Lewis, the postmistress. I'm calling about a telegram that arrived for you this morning."

"A telegram? For me?"

"Yes. It's from a Privens Publishers. Would you like me to read it?"

"No!" Rose cried. Her heart leapt into her throat. It couldn't be. Could it? "No," she said, her voice shaky but at a normal volume. "That's quite alright. I'll come in and get it." She grabbed the ring with the keys to the house and car and left without bothering to even leave a note explaining where she was going. It never even occurred to her to stop long enough to tell anyone. Jack was in the dining room developing photographs, and Stella was taking a walk. The children were still at school.

Her hands were shaking when she opened the post office door. She didn't even notice the curious looks she received or the whispers of "What's that on her neck?" Edna was a sour faced woman who had once been pretty, but that had been a long time ago. She disliked and distrusted Jack and Rose though she would never have said such thing out loud. She did however pick up the phone and call her best friend Gladys as soon as Rose left, the unopened telegram clutched to her chest, and tell her all about what a disgrace it was that "Some people wouldn't know how to appear in public looking decent if they were given a set of instructions."


	7. Chapter 7

It was only after Rose had locked the door of her writing room and stared at the unopened and now smudged telegram for five minutes that she could bring herself to open it. She tore the envelope apart, more out of an inability to control her shaking hands than eagerness. She wasn't even sure she wanted to see what was inside. "It's probably another rejection," she said, unfolding the small slip of paper.

It wasn't.

"Rose?" Jack called. He knocked lightly on the door. "You in there?" No answer. He knocked again. "Rose?" he called, louder this time. The door opened slowly. Rose stared at him blankly; in her hand was a crumpled piece of paper. "Are you alright?" he asked reaching for her. She nodded. "I'm fine," she said in a dazed voice. She held out the paper. "Could read that for me, please?"

It took Jack half an hour to convince Rose she hadn't misread the telegram. "But they can't want it," she insisted. "It can't really be for me. I'm not—"

"What? Good? Rose, you are."

"No. I—I'm not bad. I'm not awful, but I'm not the sort of talent a respectable publishing house would be the least bit interested in. I sent in that manuscript on a whim."

"Oh really?" he said, clearly unconvinced. "You sent it in expecting to get rejected? Expecting them to hate you?" He took her hands. "You didn't do that. You sent it in because you know how talented you are. You're afraid right now, but deep down you know you can do it."

"Where's all of this when someone wants you to do another show?" she said. "Why do I always have to tell you what a gifted artist you are?" His mouth turned up in a half smile. "Maybe I just like hearing it."

"Why don't I believe that?"

The children reacted to the announcement with excitement, especially Monica. Her head was filled with visions of her mother the "fashionable authoress". It only made sense, she reasoned, because after all her father was an artist. Artists needed to be with others who shared their temperament. "I hope I can marry a writer," she said as Jack was tucking her into bed that night. "It sounds dreadfully romantic."

He shook his head. "What is it with you and romance these days?" He leaned forward. "You're still just a little girl," he said. "You know that, right?" She sighed heavily. "Oh Dad, you don't understand. I can't put off planning this. I have to know how my life is going to go now."

"Why?"

"So I can be ready," she said matter-of-factly. Jack held in a smile. "Honey, life doesn't always go the way we want it to," he said gently. "We don't really have control over anything." She pursed her lips. "Mine will."

"You sure about that, huh?"

"Certain."

He kissed her forehead. "That's what the princess thought." She rolled her eyes. "That's just a story." She snuggled down into the blankets. "And the princess knew what she was doing the whole time anyway." She yawned. "It was so dreadfully romantic…" Jack shook his head and brushed a curl away from her face. "Whatever you say, Santa Monica."

…

Rose was curled up on the bed the telegram in front of her. It was curling up at the edges and smudged almost into illegibility, but she didn't care. She could read it perfectly. She slowly traced her fingertip over the letters as she read the words for the thousandth time. "Still can't believe it?" Jack asked. He sat down next to her. "Or just impressed with the printing job?"

"I still cannot believe it," she said. "It just doesn't seem possible." She shifted herself into a sitting position. "Let's say I sent in the manuscript because I knew it was good. Let's say a part of me thought they would accept it. A bigger part of me was prepared for rejection. This is crazy." He laid his hand over hers. "And that's why you should be trusting it," he said, looking into her eyes. "Some people woulda said it was crazy for you to even start writing in the first place."

"My mother, perhaps?"

He laughed quietly. "Yeah, she'd be one of them."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled about this," she said, her eyes dimming. "She will be," Jack assured her. "Don't worry." Rose shook her head. "I don't know, Jack. She doesn't take my writing seriously and remember what she said when I brought up my plan to enroll at the university next year?"

_You have already found a husband, Rose. _Ruth's voice rang in his ears. _Why would you want to waste your time in a stuffy classroom with spinsters and children? _He swallowed a sigh. "I remember. But Rose Petal, just because she said that then doesn't mean she won't be proud of you for this." She looked unconvinced. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it. "_I'm_ proud of you," he said. "Rose Petal, I…" He scooted closer to her. Putting his arm around her waist he said, "It's an honor being married to you." He lightly stroked her cheek with his thumb.

Her heart began to beat faster. "You're so talented, so sweet and smart and that fire…" He pulled her closer. Groping for the right words he began again, "I don't want to know where I'd be without you. I love you so much." He kissed her. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"What about the children?" she said. Her tone was light despite the tears in her eyes. "I couldn'ta gotten them without you," he said. He kissed her again. "I couldn'ta gotten any of this without you." She wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. "Thank you," she whispered. He paused, his hands on her hips. "For what?"

"For pulling me back over the railing," she said.

…..

After the initial excitement died down life continued on as usual. Stella went back to college for the spring semester. Anthony and Monica managed to keep Jack and Rose from finding out about their disputes with the other children, and in Anthony's case that was quite a feat. Things had only gotten worse for him after his fight. He was singled out in ways he had never imagined possible. That he had won the fight did nothing to help him. Monica did her best to make things easier for him but fear of losing her position in the schoolyard hierarchy and the difference in their grades limited what she could do. Jack prepared another series of paintings for an exhibit at a gallery in Los Angeles while secretly adding to what he referred to as the "Rose Petal Portraits". Rose set to work editing her manuscript. Every afternoon she locked herself in her writing room until Jack called her down for dinner. The book was set to go to print in the fall, and although she hadn't received any official word about changes being necessary she expected a letter from the publisher detailing everything that was wrong with it.

What she got instead was a phone call inviting her to Philadelphia to discuss a three novel contract and a royalty advance that impressed even Ruth.


	8. Chapter 8

"I don't see any other way," Jack said. "You don't want to take the kids out of school, and neither do I. We can't leave them alone." Rose rolled her eyes. "As though I would suggest such a thing," she said. "Although I must admit I don't like the idea of leaving them alone with _you_ either." His mouth dropped open in mock horror. "You mean you know about my plan to sell them to gypsies?" Rose laughed in spite of her best effort not to. "Indeed I do," she said. "And I'll have you know I won't stand for it."

"I guess I'll have to come up with another plan then."

"I guess so."

He brushed a stray curl away from her face. "What's wrong, Petal?" She sighed. "This is just all happening so fast. I don't know if I'm ready for so many changes." He leaned toward her. "Nothing's gonna change. We'll go on same as we always have."

"I don't think so, Jack. Everything is going to be different soon. The children are growing up already—"

"They're not that old yet," he said. "We've got 'em for a few more years."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do," he said apologetically. He laid his hand over hers. "But maybe it won't be so terrible if things change a little. You said when Anthony was born you wanted to travel again when he and Monica were old enough. Well, they're old enough now."

"I do want to travel again," she admitted. "It's been years since we went anywhere but Philadelphia or Atlanta." She smiled wanly. "Do you remember when we didn't have a home? When we slept somewhere new every night? And some nights we were nowhere at all? It was just the two of us and the stars overhead?"

"I remember." He squeezed her hand. "We can be like that again. Just because we've got kids now doesn't mean our lives have to end. They're just beginning."

"I know that," she said. She put a hand against her temple. "Up here, I know that. But I can't escape the feeling that nothing will ever be the same, that we'll never be that couple again."

"Why do you think that?" he asked, concern thickening his voice. She shrugged. "I don't know. It's stupid, really." He cupped her chin. "It's not," he said. "Tell me when somethin's bothering you. I can't help you with it if you don't." She smiled and tilted her head so her cheek was resting on his palm. "I love you." He kissed her forehead. "I love you too," he said.

Rose's departure was set for the following week. The days crawled by, but it still seemed to Rose that the time was over before it had even begun. "Are you sure you'll be alright here without me?" she asked, taking a dress out of the closet. "We'll be fine," Jack said reassuringly. "I promise." She folded the dress slowly. "It isn't that I don't trust you," she said. "Or that I think you aren't capable. I know you are. It's just…" She laughed quietly. "I'm being awfully silly about this. I'm not the first woman to leave her family for a few days."

"No, but you never have before," he pointed out. "It's okay if you're feeling a little nervous about it."

"I'll be alone with Mother. I haven't been alone with her since we met." She shook her head slowly and laid the dress in her open suitcase. "I m not sure I remember how to handle her on my own anymore."

"You'll do great," he said. "And she's your mother so how hard could it be?" She shot him a dubious look. "Well, she doesn't hate me anymore," he added. "And she won't try to make you marry anyone." Rose cracked a smile. "That's true. She has been telling Monica about the boys who will eventually be eligible men though."

"I told her not to do that anymore," Jack said. Rose reached for another dress. "So did I. I think she's seen an opportunity to make up for her mistakes with me." He slipped his arms around her waist. "What mistakes?" he said, kissing her neck. "Well, she raised a daughter that was willing to marry you," she said. "I'm sure she'll never quite resign herself to that no matter how successful you become."

"Damn. If only I were an arrogant asshole."

…

_Philadelphia_

Rose barely had time to step off the train before Ruth's driver was leading her through the crowd and out the door. He was a tall man with olive skin and curly dark hair. He didn't look much older than Jack. She smiled at him when he opened the car door for her, but his face remained impassive. After a quick drive across town she found herself being deposited in the entry hall of her mother's house, her suitcase taken out of her hands by a maid and spirited away. The house had changed since their last visit. If possible, it had become even more opulent.

"Rose!" Ruth's tone was that of polite joy. She wore a smile and held out her hands. "Hello Mother," Rose said, returning the smile. She took her hands. "Are you changing the house?" Ruth's eyes lit up. "I am," she said. "It really needed to be done. It had been over five years since anything had been altered. Can you imagine? I don't know where my mind was."

"Well, it looks lovely," Rose said. "You always have had an eye for decorating." Ruth's smile widened. "It's kind of you to say so," she said, only making a half-hearted attempt to hide her pleasure. "But come, let's don't stand here all day. I'm sure you're exhausted from your journey."

"Oh, no, actually," Rose said. "I'm quite the opposite. In fact, I'm famished. But," she added, upon seeing her mother's face dim, "I could use a little time to recover from the trip. Trains are incredibly jarring after all." _And call Jack. And tell him I miss him already. _

"Well, you know which room is yours," Ruth said. "Go on up and get yourself settled in. I'll send the girl up when it's time for tea."

But Rose was fast asleep when tea time came. As soon as she sat down on the bed all her energy evaporated. She kicked off her shoes and curled up, not even bothering to remove her dress. "Not wearing a corset anyway," she mumbled to herself. She curled the blankets around her body and tried to imagine Jack was holding her.

…

"No, you can't go without a bath for another night," Jack said. "It's been a week already. Do you want to smell like a—a—"

"A tramp?" Monica offered. "They don't always smell bad," Jack said. "But when they do…" He made a face. "It's bad, believe me." Anthony crossed his arms over his chest and set his jaw. "We don't have school tomorrow," he said. "I don't know why I can't just—" The sound of the phone ringing cut him off. "You're taking a bath," Jack said. "There's no getting out of it." He picked up the phone receiver. "Hello."

"Hello, Jack."

He smiled at the sound of Rose's voice. "Hey," he said. "You made it."

"Were you worried I wouldn't?"

"No, just—just glad you're there. Is it alright?"

"It's going well so far. I have my meeting tomorrow morning…."

"What is it, Rose Petal?"

"I'm nervous, Jack," she admitted. "I don't know if I can do it."

"Listen to me," he said. "You can. You're too amazing to be talking like that." Monica tugged on his shirtsleeve. "Let me talk to her," she said pleadingly. "No, me!" Anthony cried. "You have to take a bath," Monica said.

"So do you!"

"Hear what you're missing?" Jack asked.

….

Rose was at the breakfast table before anyone else. She stood up when Ruth came in, eager for some company. "How long have you been down here?" Ruth asked, shocked. Thomas came in behind her. "Only about half an hour," Rose lied. "I woke up early."

"You slept the afternoon away yesterday," Ruth said. "It's not surprising you were up at dawn." Thomas smiled at Rose before disappearing behind a newspaper. "I suppose you will be going to meet with those publishing people today," Ruth continued in a voice that made quite clear her opinion of _that_. "Yes," Rose said with a quick nod. "I'm meeting with them right after breakfast."

Ruth's mouth thinned. She took a sip of her coffee and kept her eyes firmly trained on the wall just to the left of Rose's head. _He's encouraged this,_ she thought. _He always does. _


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: There is some M at the end. Please review! **

Rose took a deep breath. The building loomed in front of her like a red brick beast. "You can do this," she said. "There is no reason why you can't do this. What would Jack say if he saw you right now?" That was enough to get her inside, but she hesitated before getting on the elevator. The attendant held the door with his arm. "Going up, ma'am?" he said. There was a trace of an Irish accent in his voice. "Yes," Rose said. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry." An overdressed woman glared at her as she stepped inside. Rose gave her a bright smile in return. "Tenth floor please," she said, turning to the attendant.

…

The fluttering in her stomach grew worse with each step. Out of nowhere she heard Jack's voice. _What are you so worried about? Rose Petal, they already accepted you. They called you here because they think you're good. _She sighed. Even the Jack that existed only in her mind knew she was overreacting.

A male voice rang out. "Mrs. Dawson!"

She stopped. The source of the voice was a dark haired man leaning out of a doorway on her let. He wore a three piece pin striped suit and the grin of a man accustomed to getting his way. "Yes?" she said in a guarded tone. He took a step toward her and held out his hand. "I'm Mr. Gardner," he said. "We spoke on the telephone."

"Oh. Yes." She gave him her hand. "Indeed we did." She smiled. "But how did you know it was me?" He laughed loudly. "You've been in the papers enough over the years for anyone to know you," he said. Her smile disappeared. She dropped her hand. "I believe we have a meeting," she said coolly. "If you don't mind I'd really like to get started."

His face became a mask of contrition. "I do apologize, Mrs. Dawson," he said. "I sometimes speak without thinking."

"Clearly." She swept past him without another glance. He hurried after her. "Mrs. Dawson, if you would—"

"I don't believe you can possibly have any further claims upon me or my time, Mr. Gardiner," she said. "In fact, you've rather extinguished the one thin claim you did have." His face reddened. "I—I apologize. Again. What I—"

"Gardiner! What on Earth are you keeping her out here in the hallway for?" boomed a tall, silver haired man in a suit that was last considered fashionable the year Rose was born. He clapped him on the back. "You aren't trying to seduce this one, are you?" Gardiner's face hardened. "No," he said. "Nor was I the other."

Rose looked from Gardiner to the new man. _Jack, why aren't you here? _It was exactly the sort of exchange he loved to watch. And later, when they were alone, he would have drawn them while they took turns making up stories about them. "Ignore him," the new man said, turning to Rose. "He's perfectly harmless—an absolute moron, but harmless nonetheless." Something in his eyes set her at ease, but she couldn't quite figure out what. "I had no intention of doing otherwise," she said allowing herself to smile slightly. He held out his hand. "Allow me to make your acquaintance. My name is Brannigan. Philip Brannigan. And may I say your husband's portraits of you don't do you justice," he added, giving her fingertips a light squeeze.

"You know his work?" She tried not to sound pleased. He nodded. "Indeed I do. But let's not stand out here in the hall all day. Come into my office. We can talk there."

…..

With an irritated sigh Ruth laid aside her needlework. The telephone had been ringing for a full minute but not a single servant had appeared to answer it. "Hello," she said, keeping her tone carefully controlled. It wouldn't do for anyone to find out she was forced to answer her own telephone. What would people say if they knew she couldn't manage her house? "Well, hello to you too," Jack said cheerfully. Ruth's mouth thinned and then curled up into the tiniest of smiles. "Mr. Dawson."

"Not having a good day?"

"What would give you that impression?"

"You called me Mr. Dawson."

"And to what do I owe the honor of a telephone call from you?" she asked. "I'm sure you're quite aware Rose isn't here."

"Yeah, I know. How's she doing?"

"Do you have a reason to suspect she's not doing well?"

"No. Just she was worried about that meeting today. She didn't say anything to you, did she?"

_And there he is encouraging her. _"No," Ruth said stiffly. "She said nothing except she wouldn't be back before three at the earliest." The change in her demeanor was obvious even through a telephone line. "You're not happy about this," Jack said. "She said you wouldn't be."

"She was right."

He pushed a stray blonde lock away from his face. "Why can't you be happy for her? Would that—" _No._ "She really wants this," he said. "And she deserves it. If you could see—she's so talented."

"Perhaps. Of course, you and I have always differed in our tastes. For instance, I cannot find the merit in shunning good society," she said. Jack held in a laugh. "I get to shun someone?" he said. "_Me_?" Her jaw tensed, though no-one would have been able to tell had they seen her. "Do not pretend to be unaware of your potential status. What is wrong with the both of you I'll never know."

"There's nothing wrong with us," he said. "And you even kinda like us whether you wanna admit it or not. That's not why I called though." His tone became serious. "Does she really seem alright?"

"Yes, she's fine. I don't know what you're worried about, Jack. She is a grown woman. I'm sure she can handle something this trifling."

"Tell her I called?"

"Of course. And Jack?"

"Yeah?"

Ruth said it without giving herself time to reconsider. "Come with her next time and bring the children."

"I will."

Ruth honestly meant to tell Rose about Jack's call, but what with lecturing the servants about not attending to their duties and going to tea at Mrs. Admonsen's house where she heard the most disturbing piece of gossip, pretended not to believe it, and carefully answered all questions about Jack and Rose in such a way as to make them appear too rich and too fashionable for society rather than too disinclined to join it, she had completely forgotten about it by the time she saw Rose at dinner.

"And how was your day, Mother?" Rose asked with a sweet smile. "It went very well," Ruth said. "I do believe I will be able to take Edith Sylbert's place on the committee for improving public grounds after all."

"Oh? I didn't know you were interested in such things."

"She won't be the moment reform falls out of fashion," Thomas joked. Ruth took a sip of her water and said nothing. "I'm only teasing, my dear," he went on. "You know that." She nodded. "And what of your day?" she said to Rose. "Yes," Thomas said. "How did the meeting go?"

"Uneventfully," Rose lied. "Absolutely nothing of note happened." In fact after she had settled into a plush chair across a wide desk from Philip things had become even more interesting than her encounter with Gardiner—who lingered in the background the whole time. He looked as though he weren't sure whether to leave or offer to assist them in some way. So he compromised and stood there quietly.

"What were we saying?" Philip said. "Oh yes! Your husband's work." Rose nodded, holding in a grin. "You said you know it."

"I stumbled across a painting of his when I was in Paris a few months ago. I believe it was of you, actually."

"Quite possibly. He never seems to tire of painting me. I encourage him to find better uses for his gifts."

"What better use can there be? But let's talk business for a moment." What followed was a renewal of the offer he had made to her on the phone. She accepted, signed a series of papers, and then, before she knew what was happening, was being told stories of a trip he had taken to Russia in search of missing Romanov heirlooms.

"I think Jack would love to meet you," she said when he walked her out at the end of the afternoon. "You lead such a fascinating life. It reminds me of him." Philip's smile never wavered. "Bring him to lunch tomorrow," he said. She gave him a puzzled look. "I'm not having lunch with you tomorrow."

"Oh, did I not invite you yet?" He laughed. "Forgive me. I'm getting ahead of myself."

Rose sighed. _Jack isn't here_. She had hated saying that. _I came alone. _"Rose?" The sound of her mother's voice broke through her reverie. "Yes, mother?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine."

Ruth didn't believe her, but she didn't press the matter. _That's what happens when he encourages her too much. _

….

Jack rolled onto his back. "Could just get up and draw." Rose's side of the bed was cold. The pillow he put in her place wasn't doing the trick. Sleep was as elusive as morality on Wall Street. He reached for the sketchbook he kept next to the bed, but it wasn't there. With a groan he let his hand fall. "Musta moved it."

**Rose pressed her face into the pillow and sighed. The most expensive bed in Philadelphia and she couldn't sleep, couldn't even come close. It was too big and empty without Jack next to her. Without Jack's arms around her—Jack's hands—"Stop," she commanded herself. "He isn't here." **

"I wonder what Rose is doing. She's probably asleep….hope she's asleep." He smiled. He could see her as clearly as if she had been there. Red curls fell freely around her face. Her eyes sparkled. Her mouth—"She isn't here. Don't do that."

**Rose bit her lip. The stirring between her legs just kept getting worse. **_**See what you did? **_**She glanced around the room to reassure herself that she was still alone before slipping a hand under her nightgown. **

"Damn it." Jack closed his eyes. "You thought yourself into this. Now think yourself out." But all he saw were images of Rose. He undid the button on his underwear and slid a hand inside. His breath caught in his throat as his fingers closed around his stiffness.

"**Jack…" Rose grabbed the pillow and squeezed as hard as she could. Her legs twitched. A moan rose up in her throat. "Jack…." **

"Rose…" He groaned. It wouldn't be much longer. It couldn't be. He couldn't take it. "Rose…"


	10. Chapter 10

Jack was outside hanging the freshly washed sheets on the line when Rose called the next morning. The phone rang once, twice, and finally a sixth time before she let the receiver drop back into its cradle with a soft sigh. "He's probably working," she said. "You know the sound of the phone doesn't reach the attic." She turned to walk away when a maid appeared at her elbow. There was a small envelope in the middle of the silver tray she held out. "This came for you, miss," she said with a quick duck of her head. Puzzled, Rose took the envelope. "Thank you," she said. Her name was written on the front in the most ostentatious handwriting she had ever seen. "Who the hell could this be from?" she wondered. Inside was a short note written on the "personal stationery of Mr. Philip H.R. Brannigan".

_Mrs. Dawson, _

_Forgive me for the intrusion, but I wondered if I might beg a favor from you….._

"Rose, what are you doing?" She jumped at the sound of her mother's voice. "Nothing," she said, folding the note and shoving it back into the envelope. "Is something wrong?" Ruth asked. Rose shook her head. "Everything's fine. I just received a very…odd note." Ruth motioned forward with her hand. "Well, don't just stand out here all morning. Come to breakfast. We have a busy day ahead."

"We?"

"Yes, I'm taking you to the Prescotts—they're oldest daughter just got married and Eliza simply must see you. After all, her Marie only married a newspaper man, but to hear her speak of him—" Ruth kept talking, but it all blurred together in Rose's head. She ate quickly, barely tasting her food. The note never left her mind. Why would he invite her to a dinner—especially one thrown by people she didn't know? _**He**__ barely knows me. _What would Jack say? _Jack wouldn't be jealous. He would tell me to go if I want to. What could be the harm in it? _

"Come along, Rose."

"Just a moment, Mother." Rose quickly dialed the phone number while Ruth frowned. She turned her back so she wouldn't have to watch her all but tap her foot with impatience. There was a series of clicks and the familiar ringing sound. And that's all there was. "Where are you?" she murmured.

"Rose."

Reluctantly Rose hung up the telephone. It meant a lot for Ruth to be able to parade her around the best drawing rooms in Philadelphia, though she would never have said it, of course. _And you're upsetting yourself over nothing,_ Rose told herself. _What do you think he's doing? _

_Finally starting up an affair with the woman who always finds a reason to talk to him when he draws in the park? _She laughed, earning a reproving look from Ruth.

A whistling Jack walked into the house a mere two minutes after Rose hung up, his portfolio tucked under his arm. He dropped it onto the kitchen table and began to spread the sketches out across the table. "Monica's gonna be disappointed," he said. Even in mid-winter the Georgian countryside didn't quite resemble the Yorkshire moors she had been begging him to paint in her room. "I might could figure it out…." He plucked a sketch from the middle and held it up to the light. "Maybe I could…" He shook his head. "No…."

"Mother, you shouldn't lie about us," Rose said. Ruth ignored the reproach in her voice. "That wasn't a lie," she said. "It was an equivocation." Rose crossed her arms and sat back in her seat as the car began to move. "An equivocation is a form of lying," she said. "You know quite well neither Jack nor I have any interest in—"

"This is the future of your children," Ruth said suddenly. "Do you not have any interest in that?" Rose was stunned. "What does impressing your friends have to do with the children?" Ruth looked as though she had sprouted a second or even a third head. "Everything!" she said with a perfect measure of controlled agitation. "Rose, what are you going to do when it comes time for them to marry? Or when your son wants to enter the world?"

"They're only five and seven. It isn't as though these are things which must be handled now."

"I started looking for a husband for you when you were three years old." Ruth sounded not a little pleased with herself. "I had your name circulating through the very best families in this city and the next two."

"Mother, I was three years old," Rose said incredulously. "I didn't even know what marriage was."

"Nevertheless you were going to have your pick of the eligible bachelors."

"When they grew up."

Ruth looked slightly annoyed. "Of course when they grew up and you did as well. Rose, why are you being so difficult?" Rose's shoulders slumped. "Don't slouch," her mother said. She ignored the command. "I suppose I'm just preoccupied," she said.

"With?"

"I called home twice, but no-one answered."

"Don't tell me you suspect something is wrong," Ruth said. "As if Jack would do anything without consulting you first." Rose smiled slightly. "He makes decisions on his own."

"None that I've ever seen. Ah, here we are." The car came to a stop. "Now, Rose do try and keep your impertinent remarks to yourself this time."

…

Jack was taking the sheets off the line when Monica and Anthony ran up to the house. Monica skidded to a stop in front of him. Gasping for air she said, "We don't have school tomorrow." Jack folded a sheet over his arm. "Why not?" he asked, more curious than confused. "No heat. County ran out of money for it. We won't have school until they get some more." A red-faced Anthony arrived a moment later. "I already told him," Monica said. He shot her a quick glare. "We said we weren't going to tell him yet," he said. "Well, I said we were," she snapped. "And I got here first."

"Well, I—"

"I said you take this," Jack said, handing Monica a sheet. "And you take this," he said, handing Anthony another sheet. "You stop fighting. You go into the house and fold these." They hesitated. "Go on," he said. "And when you're done with that go into the kitchen and start your homework."

Monica immediately protested. "But if there's no—"

"Doesn't matter. See how much trouble fighting causes?"

Jack cooked dinner while they sat in front of open notebooks and tried to finish their homework as quickly as possible. Anthony glared at Monica across the table. She stuck her nose in the air and ignored him. "When's Mama coming back?" he asked, turning to Jack.

"In a few days," he answered. "As soon as she finishes her business and spends some time with your grandmother." _So she'll be back tomorrow,_ he joked silently. _6 a.m. at the latest. _

Jack called twice that night; the first time before the children were in bed and again after they were asleep. The first time he spoke to a nervous maid who didn't know where Mrs. Dawson was, but who did know what a ringing phone sounded like and what was to be done with it. He knew that because she told him in a rushed whisper before forgetting to ask his name. The second time he managed to get through to Ruth.

"She isn't there, is she?"

"No, actually she isn't," Ruth said apologetically. "I sent her out to dinner."

"You did? Why?"

"I felt it would do her good. She was distracted all day, and when I learned of the invitation she received this morning I had to insist that she go. You may not care, but your wife was asked to dine with the Nobles."

"They're important, huh?"

"Jack," Ruth said sounding as though she were speaking to a child. "The Nobles are _the_ family right now. I—"

"Yeah, I got it. Thanks."

He didn't know why, but he felt a little sad as he hung up the phone. Maybe it was because Rose was attending high society functions without him, or maybe it was because it sounded as though her mother were telling her to attend them. "You're being absurd." He couldn't help but smile as he heard himself use Rose's word. "She wouldn't go if she didn't want to, at least a little. She's fine. What are you afraid's gonna happen? She'll leave you for a steel tycoon? She doesn't like those, remember?"

But he couldn't sleep that night, and the only thoughts he seemed capable of having were of Rose. Unfortunately, they weren't the kind he could find a way to enjoy. And around dawn a plan began to form.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: I'm going to try and do one update a week from now on. Please review!**

Anthony stood in Monica's doorway. His face was a solemn mask, his blue eyes hard and angry. "You shouldn'tve lied," he said. Monica ignored him and continued arranging her drawings. "Mon, I mean it," he said. "Dad's gonna find out." She froze. "No, he isn't," she said slowly. She turned around, a drawing in hand. "Because we aren't going to tell him. And no-one else will because if we're here he won't go anywhere. He won't think we're lying anyway."

"And that's why it's so _bad. _He trusts us. Doesn't it bother you even a little?"

"Would it bother you to have him find out what happened?"

Anthony paled. "I don't want to tell him that." She nodded. "That's right," she said triumphantly. "And if you tell him he'll tell Mama. And she'll have to come home early. Do you want that?"

"Do I want her to come home, you mean?"

Monica sighed heavily. "No! Do you want to disturb things like that. They'll be upset enough if they find out. It'll be a lot worse if she has to give up what she's doing to come deal with it." Anthony studied his shoes. "Maybe he won't tell her," he suggested. "Of course he'll tell her," Monica said. "He doesn't make any decision without asking her first."

"How do you know?"

"Grandmother told me. She said Dad had no direction in life before he met Mama. He just wandered around, lost, helpless, alone," she said dramatically. "Only think how terribly sad he must've been."

"He wasn't sad. He's told us stories."

She regarded her brother with affectionate condescension. "Of course he says that now. He can't tell us how awful it really was." Anthony remained unconvinced. "You listen to her too much." Monica scowled. "Do not."

"Do too," he said angrily. He turned to leave. "Don't tell," she said. He looked at her over his shoulder. "I won't. He'll be mad I didn't tell yesterday."

While this was going on Jack was having a difficult time convincing the nervous maid from the previous night to leave a message for Ruth. "She isn't here," the young woman kept repeating. "I know that," Jack said. "Neither of them are. When she gets back just tell her I'll be up there tomorrow. Don't let Rose come home yet."

"And you are, sir?"

Jack held in a sigh. "Just tell her it's Jack. She'll know."

…

Rose leaned against the cold glass of the car window and watched the streets rush by. "Don't slouch, Rose," her mother said. She pressed herself further into her side of the car. "I prefer to sit this way," she said flatly. "It will ruin your posture," Ruth promised.

"That's what you said about not wearing corsets."

"Don't tell me you're still not—"

"Wearing them? Indeed I am not."

"Rose, you have a daughter to think about. What is going to happen when she is old enough to get married?"

Her mother's tone grated on her ears. "She'll find someone she loves and marry them," Rose replied. "I don't see what my wearing or not wearing a corset can have to do with it." Ruth shook her head. "I only hope I can do something for her."

Rose spent the rest of the morning fuming silently. How dare her mother criticize her choices—especially where her children were concerned! _She wanted to marry me off before I had even learned to read. _

_Don't be too hard on her_, she heard Jack say. She sighed. _I miss you. _A dull ache began to fill the back of her head. If Jack were there he would gently knead it away with his thumbs. He would pull her onto his lap and let her sink against him, let her surrender the weight she couldn't bear to carry any longer. She closed her eyes and let her head fall into her hands.

...

The countryside whizzed by. Monica sat with a drawing pad on her lap, trying desperately to capture some of it. A book was open in front of Anthony, but he wasn't reading. He was watching his father watch the rest of the train's passengers. Jack also had a drawing pad open on his lap, but his hands were still. He held a piece of freshly sharpened charcoal between his thumb and index finger. A smile played about his lips. "See anything interesting?" he said suddenly turning to Anthony. "Um, I—" the boy began startled. Jack ruffled his hair. "Nothing to be afraid of," he said.

"Dad? Can I ask you something?"

"Uh-huh."

"Where are we going?"

Jack grinned. "You'll see. It's a surprise."

….

"Ma'am." The maid leaned closer to Rose's slumped body. "Ma'am," she said again, louder this time. "Huh?" Rose said weakly. She lifted her head slowly. Her green eyes were bleary. "I believe you fell asleep, Ma'am," the maid said. "Your mother sent for you."

"Oh." Rose's head ached. A pressure pushed from within; even her teeth felt it. She shivered, suddenly chilled. The maid, a young woman with bright brown eyes and a soft mouth, laid a concerned hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright, Ma'am?" Rose nodded. "I'm fine," she said taking a deep breath. "Tell my mother I'll be there in a moment."

Dinner crawled by. Rose's headache grew worse with each passing moment. The pain spread through the rest of her body. Her muscles ached as if from a beating. The chill became a shiver, and the shiver refused to stop. More than once she lost the thread of the conversation, much to Ruth's embarrassment. It would have been one thing for Rose to be absent minded if only she and Thomas were there to see it, but she was being absent minded—almost downright inattentive—in front of a tableful of very important guests.

_It can't be just him,_ Ruth thought as the second course was brought out. Rose's eyes were dull, her skin sallow. Just as she was about to suggest Rose go and rest a maid appeared and announced there was a phone call. While Ruth dealt with the call Rose took the opportunity to excuse herself from the table. There were murmurings as she left, but she didn't care.

The bed was warm and soft. She sank into it with a grateful sigh. "I wish you were here, Jack," she said as she fell asleep.

…

"I knew it!" Monica cried triumphantly. "I knew we were going to Philadelphia!" Jack chuckled. "Why didn'tcha say something then?"

"I didn't want to ruin the surprise for Anthony," she replied. Anthony rolled his eyes. "Right. That was it." Jack came to stand between them. Putting a hand on each of their shoulders he said, "What matters is that we're here." Monica looked up at him. "We came to see Mama?" He grinned. "We did."

"Think she'll be surprised?" Anthony asked. "I'm sure she will be," Jack answered.

At that moment Rose wasn't capable of feeling surprise. She was exhausted; the night had been spent in tossing and turning. Every position she tried was more uncomfortable than the last. The pressure in her head was still getting worse. Her eyes were watering. Her throat felt raw and sore. It hurt to swallow. She was shivering, but when she pulled the blankets up she felt hot. Their weight was almost unbearable. Her muscles were heavy and achy.

With an irritated groan she fell back against the pillows. "Well, at least Mother can't parade me around the city again today," she told herself. But she also couldn't go home as soon as she had planned. "Not unless something changes between now and tomorrow morning." She groaned again. "At least Jack can't get it."

Rose didn't even try to get out of bed. She waited for her mother to send someone up after her, explained her condition, asked for a glass of water, and then tried in vain to go to sleep. The clock was ticking eleven when she heard the door open. She didn't move. Whoever it was would go away soon enough. And she knew her mother well enough to know she would never come herself.

Jack crept across the room. He couldn't see Rose's face to tell if she was asleep or not. She was curled up, the blankets twisted around her body. Carefully he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Hey," he whispered, laying a hand on her arm. She lifted her head slowly and turned to look at him. "My fever must be getting worse," she murmured groggily. "Or I've finally fallen asleep."

Jack cupped her cheek. Her skin was hot to the touch. Her hair was flat, the fiery red now the color of dull pennies. "You do have a fever," he said quietly. "But you aren't dreaming me." Her eyes widened. "Jack?" She jumped up. "Jack!" Her head spun from the sudden movement, but she ignored it. She threw herself into his arms. "I've missed you so much!" she cried. He hugged her tightly. "I missed you too," he said. Her body burned against his. He pressed his cheek against her forehead and tried not to be alarmed by how hot she felt. "I missed you so much, honey."

She let herself sink against him. The aches were still there, but now they didn't seem so bad. She didn't even notice the shivering anymore. But he did. "Let's get you back under the covers," he said. He eased her back down. "You're cold." He smiled faintly and tucked the blankets around her. "Not sick, are ya?" _Of course she's sick. Ruth told you she was sick. _

_But she didn't tell me she was this bad. _

Rose returned the smile. "I'm alright, Jack. I just need to rest for a little while." He smoothed the top blanket. "You do," he said. "And I'm here now." He lightly brushed his thumb across her cheek. "I'm gonna take care of you, Rose Petal." Her eyes fell shut. "I'm glad you're here," she said softly. "I asked for soup…no-one here knows how to make it the way you do. They…."

"Ssshhh…" He kissed her forehead. "Go to sleep, my Petal. I'll have some waiting when you wake up."


	12. Chapter 12

Rose grinned. "I thought I dreamed you," she said. Jack shook his head. "No," he said, leaning toward her, a spoonful of soup in hand, "No, honey, I'm here." She took the soup gratefully and swallowed it slowly, relishing the taste on her tongue. "And you brought me soup," she said with a laugh. She grimaced as the laugh became a painful cough. "Here," he said, handing her a handkerchief. She pressed it against her mouth. "You alright?" he asked. She nodded, still coughing. It was a rhetorical question. She wasn't alright—at least, not as far as he was concerned. _I could probably get a doctor in to see her today, _he thought. _I'll call for one when she finishes eating. _

"I'm sorry," Rose said. She crumpled the handkerchief in her hand. Her eyes watered. "I wasn't doing that before." Jack touched her face. It was still hot. "It's okay," he said. "Petal, you're sick."

"I shouldn't be. I don't have the time to be sick." Her nose wrinkled. She pressed the handkerchief to her face just in time for a sneezing fit. "You have time," he said. "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything."

"How are the children?"

"They're fine." He lifted another spoonful of soup to her mouth. "They're with your mother right now." Another spoonful. "She's probably telling them all sorts of interesting things." Another spoonful. "But she seemed happy to see them."

"She can indoctrinate them," Rose said. "Of course she's happy to see them." Jack raised an eyebrow. "Little harsh there?" She shivered. "Maybe," she said, pulling the blankets up. "I have been alone with her for several days. I can't say time together has ever done much to improve our relationship."

"You have a fever," he said. "Is that what it is?" She tried to make it a joke but failed. His blue eyes were full of concern. "Rose, we have to do something about it." He touched her hand. "You're cold," she said softly. "You're burning up." He moved his hand to her neck and then her cheek. "Don't tell me you didn't know. Remember the last time I was sick? Remember how you scolded and scolded me about—"

"I remember." She motioned for another spoonful of soup. "I've had it since yesterday," she said after swallowing the soup. "Since yesterday?" Jack cried. "Rose, why didn't you—you could've told—what if I hadn't shown up when I did?" She lowered her eyes. "I wasn't really thinking along those lines," she said. She shivered. "I just needed to lie down…to sleep." Jack's expression softened. "I'm sorry," he said. He cupped her chin and lifted her head. "I just worry. I don't know what I'd do if…"

"Now do you understand how I feel when I think you're getting sick?"

He smiled weakly. "Yeah. I understand." He caressed her cheek with his thumb. _I always understood. _"When this bowl's empty I'm calling a doctor," he said. She just nodded and opened her mouth for another spoonful.

Jack closed his eyes and let his head hang down. The phone receiver was pressed against his ear. His conversation with the doctor had ended almost five minutes ago, but he couldn't seem to move. He sighed. "Rose…you can't…." _No. Stop it. What's wrong with you? Can't she get the flu without you deciding she's dying? _But the flu could kill her. He knew all too well how a simple sickness could turn into something much worse.

…

"Tell us more about what Mama was like as a child," Monica said. She perched primly on the edge of the couch, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in her lap. Ruth's eyes beamed approval from her spot on the opposite couch. Anthony was curled up in an armchair in the corner. "As long as you promise not to follow your mother's example," Ruth said.

"Why?" Anthony's voice came out louder than he had intended. Ruth turned toward him in surprise. "Why, because young girls who behave as your mother did rarely meet good ends," she said. "She got very lucky with your father."

"Because he's a good man who loves her?" Monica said. A flicker of an expression passed across Ruth's face. "Yes. And she was also lucky that he has been able to provide for her so well. Instead of living in squalor among degenerates she has been able to live in comfort among decent people. Or she would," Ruth added in a murmur, "if he would make her see the absurdity of her whims."

"Why wouldn't he have been able to provide for her?" Monica asked eagerly. "I believe I've told you this story," Ruth said. "Tell it again," Monica begged. "Please, Grandmother." Ruth held in a smile. _She's everything I hoped Rose would be. _"Well—" She was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. "Yes, Mary?" she said crisply before the young maid could speak.

"Doctor Powell is waiting in the foyer ma'am," Mary answered. "Shall I send him upstairs?"

"No," Ruth said. "I'll speak to him first. Did he say who called him?" she added, crossing the room. Mary glanced at the children. "Mr. Dawson called him," she said quietly. Ruth nodded. "Of course he did."

Monica and Anthony sat forgotten as the two women hurried from the room. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them Anthony said, "How sick do you think she is?"

"Who?"

"You know who. Mama."

"She isn't very sick," Monica said confidently. "Dad's just overprotective." Anthony rolled his eyes. "No, he isn't. You know that." His blue eyes were pleading. "Don't pretend something isn't happening, Mon."

"Well, it doesn't matter!" she snapped. "No-one would tell us anyway!" Anthony's shoulders slumped. He couldn't argue with that. "Maybe someone would," he said after a long pause. Monica tiled her head to the side. "Stella would tell us," he added. "She isn't here," Monica pointed out. "She's at college."

"We could—"

"We could not get her here. Are you crazy? How would we do that?"

"Tell her what's going on," he said. "Call her and tell her. She'd come up here. You know she would."

"If it's really bad," Monica said slowly, "someone'll tell her." Anthony shook his head. "Dad won't think of it. He'll be too worried. And Grandmother doesn't like her enough to think of it." Monica's expression was one of conflicted emotions. "We've already lied, Mon," he said. "We might as well do this."

…

Jack forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly. He leaned against the wall, hands balled into fists at his sides. _She's fine_. _Then why is it taking so long? It isn't taking so long. You're worrying too much. No, it is—_

"Jack?"

"Huh?"

Ruth studied his face. "Do you really believe she has anything more than an ordinary flu?"

"I don't know what I believe," he admitted. "Maybe I'm overreacting. I—" He sighed. "She doesn't feel right," he said, holding out his hands. "She's too hot. And—and I know that sounds crazy, but it's true. There's something not right. I don't know why, but…" He sighed. "I'm not crazy."

"I didn't accuse you of being crazy," Ruth said calmly. "However, I really don't understand what you're so worried about. She has a bad cold or a flu and nothing more. She probably got it from running around improperly dressed all week." She frowned. "Wearing that man's shirt…" Jack smiled slightly. "She wore a man's shirt?"

"I might have known it was yours."

"Hey, she asked for it."

"And you gave it to her."

His smile widened. "I did." The memory of that day flashed before his eyes. Rose pressed his blue shirt to her face. "Mmm….It smells like you," she said happily. "That's funny. It just came off the clothesline," he said with a soft chuckle. "I smell like wind and soap?"

"That's part of how you smell," she said. He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her into a hug from behind. "What else do I smell like?" She covered his hand with hers. "You smell like paint and charcoal and wind and soap and cigarettes—"

"I don't smoke anymore."

"You do sometimes. I can tell."

"Does it bother you?"

"No. I like it."

He breathed in the scent of her hair. "You smell like lavender and ink and paper and the outdoors and—"

"She's fine, Jack." Ruth's voice brought him back to the present. He didn't answer; his features set, he turned toward Rose's door. _Of course he won't listen_, Ruth thought. _He is the most stubborn man alive. _But she already knew that. She knew that even before he went into her kitchen and insisted the cook allow him to make a pot of lemon rice soup himself. "She'll know if I didn't make it," he had said when she asked him why he couldn't let the staff do their jobs in peace.

"How?"

"She'll know. And I promised I'd make her soup. When I'm done, I'll go away."

Ruth shook her head. _At least they're even. _

**AN: Review please! **_  
_


	13. Chapter 13

Stella dropped her bag on the floor and rushed across the room to the ringing telephone. "Hello," she said breathlessly. "Anthony, it's you," she said, dropping into the chair next to the telephone table. "Why're you calling?"

"Stella, we need you to help us with something," he said.

"We?"

"Monica and me."

"Where are you? What's wrong?"

"We're in Philadelphia. Can you come up here?"

"Hang on a second. Why're you there? Why can't—"

"Mama's sick, and Dad won't talk about it. He won't tell us anything. He'll tell you."

Stella sighed. "Are you sure she's—is she really bad?"

"Stella?" Monica said. She sounded tiny on the other end of the phone line. "I'm here," Stella said. "He'll tell you," Monica said. "And you won't say he's crazy like Grandmother does." Her shoulders slumped. "She thinks he overreacts."

"Alright. I'll come up there. But only for a few days. Only to show you that everything is fine." A knot filled her stomach as she hung up the phone. Jack didn't overreact. He was the most levelheaded person she had ever met. If Jack was upset—"They're children," she told herself. "Children overreact sometimes. Especially very intelligent children. They misconstrue what they see…" She picked up her bag and slowly walked up the stairs to her room. She packed a small suitcase, left a note for her roommate, and left.

….

Rose's hand burned in his. Jack brushed his lips across her knuckles. She smiled faintly, and her eyes fluttered open for a moment. "Hello," she whispered, trying her best to feign surprise at seeing him. "Sshh," he said. "Rest, Petal."

"I am. I haven't moved in days." Her laugh became a cough. Gently he eased her into a sitting position. She leaned forward, one hand on her chest. Tears filled her eyes. Her throat burned. She tried to breathe, but the coughing got worse with each attempt. Jack slipped a clean handkerchief into her hand. She pressed it to her mouth and spit. "That was unpleasant," she said. He took the soiled handkerchief and gave her a new one. "Looked painful," he said, offering her a glass of water. She accepted the glass gratefully. "It was." She drank half the glass in one gulp. "You don't have to keep sitting up here," she said handing it back. "I'll be alright on my own for a little while."

"I'm fine right here." He brushed a curl away from her face. Her hair was limp under a thin layer of grease. "Feel like a bath?" he asked. "A quick one?" Her eyes brightened. "I'd love a bath." He grinned. "Wait here while I fill the tub."

Rose's muscles felt like jelly as she walked across the bedroom and into the bathroom. Even with Jack's arm around her she was unsteady. Her head ached. The air pressed against her, hot and thick; finally she understood why Jack kept saying she was burning up.

Carefully, he lowered her into the tub. "Too hot?" he asked. She shook her head. "It's perfect." She closed her eyes and let her body sink into the water. "It feels wonderful." She slowly moved her head from side to side until her curls were soaked through. She moved to sit back up. "I gotcha," Jack said, taking hold of her shoulders. He handed her a bar of soap. She managed to lather her arms before her strength gave out. She clenched her jaw. Her hands were just too heavy—_everything_ was just too heavy. "Will you help me?" she said. "Please?"

"Of course."

Jack's hands moved quickly and gently. Before she knew it he was helping her climb out of the tub and wrapped a thick towel around her. She took a step forward. Her knees buckled. "I gotcha," he said. He lifted her up. "Let's get you back to bed."

"I hate this." Jack sighed. "I hate it too," he said. He ran his fingers through her hair. Brushing it had been a waste of time; it never had knots. "Am I getting better at all?" she said. "It doesn't feel like I am."

He hesitated. Instinctively his arms tightened around her. _You're getting better. _Except she wasn't. Her fever had gone down, but it hadn't broken. Her coughing was getting worse. She was pale and losing weight. Her body felt tiny in his arms; like if he squeezed too hard she would break. She twisted around so she was looking at him. "Tell me the truth, Jack." He kissed her forehead. "You'll get better."

….

Monica was curled up in the parlor window seat when Jack came downstairs. Her sketchpad was on her lap. Anthony was on the other side of the room, a book in his hands. He looked up when Jack came in. "Whatcha reading?" he asked, ruffling his hair.

"_David Copperfield._"

"Sure you can handle that?"

Anthony nodded. "I can handle it," he said confidently. The book, a large leather bound first edition, was almost as big as he. "I'm sure you can," Jack said. "Mama read part of it to me," Anthony added. Jack's throat tightened. "You'll have to tell her you finished it on your own," he said.

"Come look at my drawing?" Monica said. Jack grinned. "Sure." She moved to the other side of the window seat to make room for him. "I don't think I'm doing it right," she explained. "Hhmm…let's see," he said. "Okay. Your perspective is a little off here. Remember you gotta keep the stuff that's faraway smaller…."

Monica didn't move when Jack carried her up to bed. She clutched a charcoal pencil in her fist and refused to give it up. He kissed her forehead and tucked her in anyway. It would stain the sheets, but what was another lecture from Ruth? Back downstairs he found Anthony rubbing his eyes and slowly moving toward the stairs. "C'mon," Jack said, swinging him up with one arm. Anthony yawned. "I can make it," he insisted sleepily. "I know you can," Jack agreed. "But let me help you anyway? Do a favor for your father?"

"Oh, okay."

The house was silent and dark. Walking through it seemed somehow wrong. Jack crept into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. He ladled half a bowl of soup out of the pot simmering on the stove. Rose had slept through dinner. She would wake up hungry soon.

…

"This is absurd," Stella said. The wind whipped at her jet black hair. She tightened her scarf. "This is absurd," she repeated, quickening her pace. "There's no reason for me to be here." She sighed. "Except they asked me to come."

The maid who opened the door stared at her when she asked for Jack. "I'll get him, miss," she said. "Wait right here." She disappeared up the stairs, her skirts rustling with each step. Jack came out of the hallway that led to the kitchen a moment later, a half of a roll in his hand."Stella Maris?" he cried. His expression mingled shock with happiness. "What're you doing here?"

"I—" she began. Monica and Anthony burst in behind him. They stopped short, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. They exchanged glances. _This wasn't part of the plan_, Anthony's said.

_Well, how did you expect us to explain why she came? _Monica's said. "I had to go home," Stella lied. "And no-one was there. So I assumed you would be here." Monica wrapped her arms around herself and pretended to shiver. Without missing a beat Stella said, "They cancelled classes for the next few weeks. There isn't enough money for heat."

"That's what happened to—" Jack was cut off by Ruth. "Why are you just standing there?" she said, stepping past the children. "What can be so—Oh." Her lips thinned. "Isn't this unexpected." Stella lifted her chin. "I had to come," she said evenly. She turned to Jack. "Where's Rose?"

"She's—" Jack glanced back at the children. "She's upstairs." He motioned for her to follow him. "C'mon. There's something in the garden I want to show you."

"I told you," Anthony said when they had gone. "I told you he'd tell her." Monica shot him a look. "Be quiet," she hissed under her breath. But Ruth had forgotten they were there. Her attention was absorbed by the morning's round of invitations.

..

Jack and Stella walked slowly. "This is a lovely garden," she said drily. "I particularly like the dead wintry look it has." He chuckled softly. "Yeah, I was thinking that." He looked at his feet. After a long pause he said, "Rose is sick." She didn't reply. "She's really sick," he went on. "I don't think anyone else realizes it. Ruth thinks I'm being overprotective. The doctor said it hasn't been long enough yet…she isn't coughing blood so I shouldn't be worried."

"But you are."

"Yeah." His blue eyes were dark. "I'm worried." Stella took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "She'll be fine," she said. "She's Rose." He forced himself to smile. "She's strong," he said. "I know she is. But maybe….No. She is."

They walked around the garden in silence. Jack's hand was cold and heavy in hers. He moved slowly, almost clumsily; as if some essential piece had been removed. She wanted to tell him it would be alright, but it would have been a waste of words. That wasn't what he needed. He needed someone to just let him be.

"Disgraceful," the maid said with a cluck of her tongue. "Who are you talking to?" Ruth asked sharply. The maid turned from the window quickly. "No-one ma'am," she said with a tilt of her head. "Tea, Trina," Ruth said, taking her place at the window. "Disgraceful indeed," she murmured.


	14. Chapter 14

Waking up was like swimming against the tide of a river filled with an impossibly thick substance. Rose struggled to pull herself into consciousness; her mind was willing, but her body just couldn't wake up. A week of eating nothing but soup combined with a high fever had taken its toll. She tossed and turned, beads of cold sweat dotting her arms. Her eyes fluttered open, but the lids were too heavy and they fell closed again. "Jack," she murmured hoarsely. Weakly she pulled at the bedcovers in search of his hand. Just moving her fingers was exhausting. "Jack," she called out summoning what little strength she had. There was the sound of a door and then feet hurrying across the floor. "I'm here," he said taking her hand. "I'm right here Rose Petal." She forced her eyes to open; a small smile spread across her face. "You are," she murmured.

Jack smoothed her hair. Her curls lay pressed almost straight by sweat and the weight of her head on the pillow. He lightly caressed her face, ignoring the knot in his stomach. Gradually her breathing slowed, her eyes stopped moving beneath the lids, and he knew she was in a restful sleep. "I'll get you better," he whispered kissing her hand. "I promise." He closed his eyes and pressed her hand to his cheek. "It doesn't matter what I hafta do."

Jack walked down the stairs slowly, fighting the urge to go back and check on Rose. She was sleeping. She was fine or at least as fine as she could get in her condition. The words repeated in his hand like a mantra. _You have to stop,_ he told himself. _You have to go five minutes without worrying about her. It won't help anything._But that was much easier said than done.

"Look at this!" Monica thrust a drawing pad in into his hands. "Please," she added. He grinned. "And what have we been drawing today?" He flipped the pad open. "Hhm…Uh huh." He flipped to the next page. He raised an eyebrow. "You do that from the tree in the garden?" She nodded. "Your grandmother see you climbing a tree?"

"No."

"Good." He flipped to the next page. "This one's really good," he said. He ran his fingertip over the outline of the tree. "The shading here—you see that?—that's—I couldn't do that at your age." Monica smiled proudly. He pulled her into a quick hug. "You'll better than me if you keep this up," he said. She shook her head a slight blush spreading across her cheeks. "Not better," she said eyes shining with admiration for him. Jack gave her another squeeze. "Why don'tcha draw one more?"

"For Mama?"

"Yeah. Draw something she'd like."

"I know what I'll do!" she said excitedly. She took the pad and skipped away before he could say another word. He sighed as he watched her go, red curls bouncing with each skip. "Tiny Rose," he said with a chuckle.

He was surprised to find the sitting room empty. A stack of books next to the couch was the only indication anyone had been there. His gaze landed on the window that faced the garden. Monica was already scrambling back into the tree. In the distance he could see Stella and Anthony sitting on the ground each with a book in their lap. He couldn't help but smile. "Guess I can go back upstairs," he said. The knot in his stomach loosened just a little. Maybe things really would be fine. Maybe he really was overreacting.

Ruth hated when he answered the door instead of waiting for a servant to do it, but when the doorbell rang on his way to the stairs he turned and opened it without thinking. The man on the other side barely gave him a glance before asking for Rose. "She's upstairs," Jack said eyeing him curiously. His silver hair shone in the afternoon sun. His suit was obviously expensive and yet just as obviously old fashioned. He carried a gold topped walking stick and wore shiny white shoes. "I'm sorry," Jack went on. "She can't see anyone."

"Really? I hope nothing is wrong. She didn't return my last two phone calls, and the third wasn't even answered."

"I don't know anything about that," Jack said. "Can I help you with something?"

"No, no. I don't think—" Philip gave Jack a once-over. "—You could." There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't put his finger on what. He knew him from somewhere; he had seen his face somewhere. But he couldn't be anyone important, not with clothes like that, not with hair like that. His manners were too open, too unguarded. "Please let Rose know I came to visit." He turned to walk away.

"How do you know her?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How do you know her?" There was something about him Jack didn't like. And something familiar about him too. Phillip stared at him. "That's a rather impudent question."

"You called her Rose," Jack said smoothly. "That's rather presumptuous." Indignation filled Phillip's voice. "She gave me leave to call her that. What business, may I ask, is it of yours?"

"She's my wife."

Now it made sense. Now he knew why Jack was so familiar. _Been in every newspaper in America,_ he thought. _Though not so much recently. Not too interesting these days. Critics still like him. _"Of course she is," he said. "And that's where I know you from." He extended his hand. "My name is Phillip Brannigan. I'm your wife's publisher." Jack shook it quickly. His eyes never left Phillip's face. "Good to meet you," he said. "I'm sorry, but she's ill right now. I can pass along the message when she's feeling better."

"Oh yes, of course. Please do tell her not to worry about a thing. I've taken care of everything. There's nothing left for her to do."

"I will. Thanks."

"You know you're exactly as she described you," Phillip said. "But I thought you didn't come with her. Something about staying home with the children?"

"Yeah, we stayed home at first." Jack didn't know what made him keep speaking, but he added, his eyes boring into the other man's, "And now I'm here."

….

Jack didn't mention Phillip's visit to Rose when she woke up later that evening. He had more important things to tell her about. "You feel about normal," he said pressing his wrist to her forehead. "I think your fever might be gone."

"Dare we try the thermometer?"

"We dare." He grabbed it off the bedside table. She opened her mouth and lifted her tongue. "Good girl," he said grinning. "Now, don't talk," he added. "Or we'll have to do it again." She rolled her eyes. "Monica drew you a picture today," he said. "But I'm not allowed to tell you that yet." She frowned. "Sorry. It's really good. I mean, it's really—Rose, it's amazing what she's doing. I don't know how she's doing it. I wasn't that good at her age. I'm not that good now." She grunted. "Sorry," he said. She opened her mouth for him to take the thermometer. "I won't say it again."

"See that you don't," she said in the haughtiest tone she could manage. "I—" A coughing fit overtook her. She leaned forward, her features twisted in pain. "That's good," Jack said, putting a hand on her back. He pressed a handkerchief into her hands. "Don't fight the coughing. I know it hurts, but don't fight it." She nodded. Tears streamed from her eyes. "I'm not trying not to," she choked out. "It feels like my throat has been set on fire when I cough." He rubbed her back. "I know," he said sadly. "I'm sorry." She smiled weakly. "It's not your fault, Jack." She reached up and cupped his cheek. "You're so worried about me," she said. "Why? What don't I know?"

There were so many ways to answer that. But which was the right way? _It'll just upset her. Don't. She doesn't need that right now. _He took put his hand on hers, curling his fingers around her palm. Rose swallowed a cough; her heart began to beat faster. His eyes were dark and serious. There was something in his gaze she had never seen before. Her fever was gone, but she felt chilled nonetheless. "Jack, what's wrong? There really is something I don't know, isn't there?"

"I never told you how my mother died," he said slowly. "You asked, and I didn't tell you, remember?" She nodded. "She got sick," he explained. "Like you are. And she just got worse." His thumb moved slowly across her knuckles. "What you don't know is that I'm afraid. I've been afraid since I got here and I saw you. I know I shouldn't be. There's no reason to be." His words started coming out faster. "Everyone says I'm overreacting, but I can't help it. I keep telling myself you're fine." He squeezed her hand. "You'll be fine. But I'm still afraid of…" He couldn't say it.

"Oh Jack. Oh my darling, come here," she said pulling him into her arms. He offered no resistance. She held him as tightly as she could. He pressed his face into her neck and squeezed his eyes shut. "You could have told me sooner," she said softly, rubbing his back with one hand. "You didn't need to be worrying about me," he said. "I'm not important right now." He kissed her collarbone. "Keeping you with me is what's important."


	15. Chapter 15

Rose breathed slowly and tried not to cough. The itch slowly moved up through her throat; she tightened her jaw and willed herself to ignore it. Finally it passed. Sighing quietly she ran her fingers through Jack's hair. He murmured something unintelligible, but his eyes remained closed. He nuzzled her collarbone and murmured again, her name this time. She smiled and kissed the top of his head. His hair was soft and cool against her lips. "I love you," she whispered. She began to slowly rub his back. He nuzzled her again. "My Rose," he murmured hugging her tighter. "My Jack," she said giving him a squeeze.

…..

Jack brushed a curl out of her eyes. "Do you know how beautiful you are when you sleep?" Rose shook her head. "But I know how beautiful _you _are when you sleep," she said gently pinching his cheek. He scrunched up his face. "Beautiful?" he said feigning disgust. "Me?" She looped an arm around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. "Yes, you," she said. "You're a dashing man, Jack Dawson." Her eyes sparkled with laughter. "I don't know how I keep you." His hands moved over hers; he slipped his fingers into hers. "I know how," he said. Love shone in his eyes. It would have been a perfect moment if she hadn't been seized by a coughing fit.

"I'm sorry," Rose said when it subsided. "I've been holding them in." Jack frowned. "Don't," he said. "You need to cough. Remember when I had pneumonia? Remember lecturing me when you thought I wasn't coughing enough?" She nodded. "Yes, I remember. I feel somewhat guilty about that now."

"Why? You were right." He ran his thumb across her hand. "And you got me better, Rose Petal. I wouldn'tve gotten through that if you hadn't been there." She put her thumb on his. "We went over this years ago," she said. "And you would have." He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. "Please don't try to hold the coughing in," he said. Their foreheads touched. "For me," he added. "I know you don't like it, but do it for me."

"I'd do anything for you."

"Oh really?" His tone was light, teasing. "Would you give up a princessdom?" She nodded. "Would you give up a unicorn?" She nodded. "Would you jump over the moon?" She laughed. "That one was just absurd!"

"More absurd than the first two?"

"Far more so."

He kissed her cheekbone. "Your eyes are brighter now," he said. He touched her face with his free hand. "And you're not burning up anymore." His smile wavered for a moment. "You're still a little warm though." Rose studied his face for signs of his thoughts. After they woke up from the nap he had behaved as though nothing had happened. He grinned at her and gave her a soft kiss before making a joke about nothing. At first she had wondered if she dreamed it all, but now, looking into his eyes, she saw the fear he had kept—and was trying once again to keep—hidden. Telling her clearly wasn't enough. He wouldn't be satisfied until she was well, and he was sure of it. _I can't help you if you don't let me, _she thought fighting the urge to pull him back into her arms. _Let me. _"I'll rest," she said. "That should help." He nodded slowly. "Yeah, it should." His gazed remained fixed on her face. His lips twitched as though there was something he wanted to say. "I love you," he said finally, giving her another kiss. "I'll go check on the kids."

"They're most likely sending Mother into hysterics."

"Nah, Stella probably has them under control. Or at least she did when I came up."

"Stella's here?" Rose asked, confused. "When did she get here?"

"Just this morning actually," Jack said. "She's out of school for awhile. Said she went home, but obviously we weren't there so she came up here." Rose settled back against the pillows. "I wonder how she knew we would be here," she said. "It makes sense to guess that, but we could just as easily have gone somewhere else." He tucked the blankets around her. "She's a good guesser?" he said kissing the top of her head. "Doesn't really matter though. It's actually great that she's here. I can take care of you without worrying about the kids."

"I'm glad they can spend time with someone besides Mother. Not that I don't want them spending time with her," she added quickly. "I just don't want them absorbing too many of her ideas—especially Monica."

"Don't worry." He kissed her lightly. "They'll be fine. They're smart."

"I know they are, but they're also very young." Rose's sigh became a hacking cough. Jack put his arm around her and leaned her forward so her cheek rested against his shoulder. He rubbed her back until the coughing subsided.

…

Jack met Stella at the top of the stairs. She carried a book under her arm. "Kids are asleep," she said. He nodded. "Rose is too."

"Is she doing any better?"

"Her fever went down, but she's still coughing. Worse than ever, actually," he said. His eyes were heavy. "I just wish there was something I could do, you know? That I could help her." Stella smiled wanly. "I know." She wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say. All the words that came to mind were trite clichés. Jack didn't need that, and it wouldn't help Rose. She sighed quietly. Pushing her own growing fear down she said, "Want to take a walk with me?"

"Now?"

"No. Tomorrow. I'm reserving you," she said drily. "Of course now."

"It's late. Sure you wouldn't rather go to bed?"

"I slept on the train."

"Alright."

It was a crisp, cool night. Stars twinkled in the black sky. The garden, desolate and gray during the day, was transformed into an elven wood. "I love being out here at night," Jack said. He took a deep breath, savoring the feel of the cool air in his lungs. His shoulders relaxed slightly. "It's a different world at night," Stella said. "Nothing looks the same."

"That's why I like it so much." He gazed up at the sky. "The stars are breathtaking on a night like this."

"They're nice," Stella said. Jack smiled to himself. "They're my favorite place." She looked at him, her brow furrowed. "You can't go there," she said. He put his hands in his pockets and kept walking, a smile playing about his lips. She wanted to ask what it was about but didn't. Instead she filled the silence with anecdotes, hoping the superficial words would distract him temporarily.

"I think we have to do something about the kids," he said after her last story died out. "What do you mean?" she asked. "They're fine." He shook his head. "There's something goin on with them. I don't know what, but they're having trouble in school." She nodded for him to continue. "Monica's so obsessed with being accepted—no, with being liked. Anthony's fighting. He doesn't seem old enough for that yet. And I know we're not the easiest parents to have."

"I thought you were great parents."

He ruffled her hair playfully. "Shows how much you know. What are we sending you to school for, huh?" She laughed. "You had to get rid of me. I'm shameful in my own right." His expression became serious again. "No, you're not," he said. She touched his shoulder. "I know," she said. He gave her hand a squeeze. "Oh, Stella Maris…I just don't know. I want to take care of them. But I can't fix whatever's going on with the kids, and I can't make Rose better. All I can do is—"

She cut him off. "What you've always done. You take care of people so well, Jack."

"Ya think?"

"Remember when we first met and you took me up in the attic to show me your drawings?" He nodded smiling slightly. "I liked you anyway, but when you did that—when you _actually noticed_ I was there, I started thinking about what it would be like to have you as a father."

"You did? From that?" But he knew the significance of the gesture, and he always had. "Yes, from that," she said. "It didn't hurt that your art was wonderful. A big room full of beautiful pictures—it was dazzling. And you talked to me. Both of you did." A faraway look came into her eyes. "I'm not sure what I would've done if I'd had to leave."

"Between you and me, I think Rose made up her mind to keep you the moment she saw you."

"I love you," she said. "I just want you to know that. You made me feel like I really was your daughter. Both of you."

"You are." His tone left no room for questions. "We always said you were supposed to be ours." She could only smile as they turned and headed back toward the house. "You take care of all of us," she said as they drew near the door. "Don't doubt yourself, Jack. Things will work out. You got us out of France, remember?"

"I kept you trapped there for how long?" he said laughing. "Monica was almost born there!"

"But you kept us safe and happy until we could leave. That's what counts."

Jack walked around the garden again after she went in. His head felt clearer than it had in weeks. All the pieces weren't in place yet, but he could see what needed to be done. He had been still too long. It wasn't in his nature. "It's not really in Rose's either. We gotta go back. We said we would when the time was right, but there isn't a right time." He shook his head. "You used to know that."

When Rose snuggled closer to him that night her skin was cool, her breathing even. He wrapped his arms around her with a contented sigh. _See, she really is getting better,_ he thought as he drifted off. _You've just been making yourself worry over nothing. _


	16. Chapter 16

Rose continued to improve. Her fever didn't return, and although her coughing still hadn't cleared up two weeks later, she was well enough to get out of bed and go downstairs. She snuck out one afternoon—Jack still wouldn't hear of her getting up—but he was gone for the afternoon. He had taken Stella and the children on a quest for art. He only agreed to go if she agreed to take a nap. "But I'm not tired," she protested. "Jack, I feel fine."

"Just try to rest," he said. "Please?" He smoothed the blanket. "I don't want you overdoing it before you're really better." "But Jack—" The look in his eyes silenced her. There was pleading—and love—but buried under that there was fear. She found herself imagining him as a child; it was the same look he must have given his mother. "Fine," she said. "I'll stay in bed." He smiled. "Thank you." He leaned forward and kissed her. "Tomorrow. You can get up then. We'll go for a walk."

"Outside. A long walk."

"I promise." He kissed her again, lingering this time. She pressed her hand against the back of his neck. He let her pull him closer; the kiss deepened. "You could stay here," she said softly. "I promise to stay in bed." He swallowed a groan. "I promised I'd take them." But his hand moved up her arm. "I'm supposed to be downstairs." She leaned back, pulling him with her. "Rose…" He cupped her cheek. "We can't…" He groaned. "I wish we could." With a resigned sigh she released him. "I miss you."

"I miss you too." He traced the outline of her lips with his thumb. "Soon." He wanted to kiss her again, but he didn't trust himself to walk away if he did. "When you get back," she said. She kissed his fingertips. "I'll be rested."

After he left she tried to sleep. She lay in bed for an hour tossing and turning, but she only managed to frustrate herself. "Damn it." She threw the blankets back and hopped out of bed. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him," she said grabbing one of his shirts. She buttoned it over her camisole and pulled a pair of his pants on. "I'll just go downstairs for a bit while he's gone."

The house was as silent as a tomb. She crept downstairs, afraid she would make a noise and destroy the stillness. Once at the bottom she relaxed. Her bare feet made no sound on the marble floors. Jack's pants came down over her feet and curled under them making it difficult to walk without sliding. After a few steps she gave up and just slid down the hallway. She slid through all the downstairs hallways. The house was a palatial maze. "So many rooms they never use," she murmured. "It's a shame." She laughed to herself. "But I suppose the same could be said about Jack and I."

The back hallway ran the length of the house. Floor length windows gave a perfect view of the garden, and a set of French doors in the middle of the hallway opened into it. It was there that Rose's skating became ambitious. Clutching the corner at one end she took a few steps back. Pushing as hard as she could she flung herself forward. Jack's soft flannel pants slid easily across the freshly waxed marble. She threw her head back and laughed. _If only Jack were here! _

She was enjoying herself too much to hear her mother's approaching footsteps as she rounded the corner. She crashed into Ruth, knocking them both back. Rose landed in a heap on the floor, confused but giggling. Ruth grabbed a nearby table and managed to keep her balance. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson; her eyes glittered. She spoke through thin lips, "Rose, what on Earth are you doing?" But that only made Rose laugh harder. She slowly climbed to her feet, clutching her now aching stomach. "I was skating down the hallway," she said suddenly feeling like she had when a child and about to receive a scolding. Ruth's expression shifted from indignant shock to confusion. "I was skating on the cuffs of Jack's pants," Rose explained. "They're so long it was easy—almost impossible not to, actually."

"Do I need to worry about him coming around that corner as well?" Ruth asked drily. "Or is it safe?"

"You needn't worry. He isn't here."

"Left you alone, has he?" Ruth sniffed. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" Rose's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? You're the one who's been saying he spends too much time with me, that he should get out of the sickroom."

"Well, that was before I realized what he would be doing once he got out." 

"Before you—What? Mother, what is this nonsense? I thought you liked him, a little at least."

"I did like him when I thought he was treating you well, but—and I hate to tell you this—" She looked somewhat gleeful, actually. "—But his loyalty is just as weak as I always expected it to be." There. She had finally said it. Her intention had been to confront Jack with her suspicions, but getting him alone had proved impossible.

Rose stared at her with a mixture of shock and anger. "Why would you say such a thing?" Her voice was soft. "You know he's never been anything but good to me. He's never treated me with less than the utmost love and respect. I have never been so well-cared for or felt so valued by anyone, including you."

Rose's words stung, but Ruth didn't let on at all. "It's easy enough to make a girl like you believe she's the sole object of the affection of a man like that." Her words sounded harsh even to her. She regretted them the moment they left her mouth. Now, looking at Rose's red cheeks and awaiting a verbal slap, she wasn't so sure what to believe anymore. Had she really seen what she thought she saw? Or had she made the whole thing up—misconstrued innocent acts to build a case against them? For it was a them her wrath was aimed at—Jack and Stella, though most of it was reserved for Jack. He was the one who had made her trust him, forced an affection with his persistent good nature, and then proved she had been right about him all along.

The walk in the garden had been the first incident, but others had quickly followed. There was the morning she came downstairs to find them alone in the sitting room, heads together and whispering. They jumped apart when they saw her, confirming their guilt. More incidents had followed. She discovered them walking in the garden again—many times, actually. Whenever Jack wasn't with Rose or the children he was with Stella. Her dark eyes were always fixed on him, her tiny white hands touching some part of him. The night the doctor announced there was a chance Rose had consumption she stumbled upon them embracing. Jack gave Stella a kiss on the head. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here," he said. "I don't know if I could handle it."

"You would handle it just fine." She smoothed the front of his shirt. "Stop underestimating yourself." Ruth had walked away in disgust then, missing Stella's next statement. "You can't let Rose see you like this. She needs you to be strong so she can."

"I know. I just so…" He shook his head. "I get so afraid of losing her—of losing everything." He seemed to be talking more to himself than to her. "When you got nothin, you got nothin to lose." Had Ruth heard that her suspicions might have changed.

Rose wanted to scream, but she couldn't. Her voice just wouldn't rise above a whisper. "What are you implying?" Ruth didn't want to answer; she wanted to never have said anything at all. "Simply that Jack seems to be finding plenty of comfort during this difficult time."

"And where would he be finding it?" She asked though she knew full well what her mother would say. "This is the first time he's left the house in weeks."

"Surely you know how much time he's been spending with that—that misbegotten girl you insist on keeping in your lives."

"She has a name."

"Yes, and Jack seems well aware of it as well as all her other attributes."

Ruth's words hit Rose like a slap in the face. "I knew you could never change," she said. "He told me I was wrong. He told me to give you a chance because any mother was better than none at all, and I believed him because he would know. But he was wrong." She turned on her heel and hurried away as best she could without sliding across the floor. Ruth watched her go, unsure what to do next.

Rose lay curled up on the bed when Jack came in a few hours later. He lowered himself down behind her, careful not to jostle her. He kissed her cheek. "Hey," he whispered. She didn't move. He wrapped an arm around her middle and pulled her closer. He let his head fall into the space between her neck and shoulder. "I missed you."

She put her arm over his and shifted so that he was hugging her tighter. "I want to go home," she said. He lifted his head. "We will." She twisted around so she was looking at him. "Now?"

"Well, not tonight, but—Rose, what's wrong?" She turned over. He put a hand under her back and gently shifted her so she was looking up at him. "Rose Petal, tell me what happened."

"My mother thinks you're time away from me is being spent in a love affair."

Jack couldn't believe his ears. "What? Why would she think that? How would I—She thinks it's Stella, doesn't she?" Rose nodded. "She's convinced herself. She's certain that you were exactly the scoundrel she thought you were all along."

"Do you believe that?"

"No. Maybe that's crazy of me. Maybe I ought to give the idea some thought instead of just dismissing it, but—" She put a hand on her head. "Here." She move the hand to her breast, just above her heart. "And here I know she's wrong. I know you wouldn't do that to me. Even if you wanted to you wouldn't."

He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. "I don't want that—and especially not with her. She's like one of my own kids. She's just been helping me deal with everything. I needed someone to talk to. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She pulled him in for a soft kiss. "Just take me home. Please." He nodded. "Okay."

But that wouldn't be an option. Rose seemed well, but her coughing fits said otherwise. Before he made arrangements for them to leave Jack sent for the doctor for what he hoped would be one last visit.

"You can't take her back there," he said once they were in the hallway.

"Why not? She's—"

"Still borderline consumptive. She's quite well compared to what she was and compared to what she could be, but that could easily change. What she needs is a hot, dry climate. No, I'm afraid going home is simply out of the question. It's too humid there. The moisture would never get out of her lungs."

"So where can I take her?"


	17. Chapter 17

Jack knocked lightly on the sitting room door. Ruth looked up from her book. A pair of small, thin glasses perched on the edge of her nose. "Yes?" she said coolly. "Can we talk?" he asked taking a step forward. She nodded. "I suppose we must." She closed her book and slipped it onto the table next to her. "Don't linger in the doorway like a guilty child." She laid her glasses on the book. "Come in and sit down." Jack took a seat in the chair across from her. "You don't like me," he said. "Why?"

"Rose didn't tell you? She didn't run to you with the story?" Ruth's voice dripped with mock surprise. "Don't belittle my intelligence." Her words came out hard and flinty. "We both know how I feel and why."

"I guess you're right. She did tell me." He leaned forward, hands clasped. "But I wanted you to tell me."

"I can't imagine why."

"I've always thought we owed it to her to get along," he said slowly. "She shouldn't have to choose between us."

"It's easy to feel that way when you know she'll always choose you."

Jack was stunned. "I don't know that. She could just as easily—" Ruth cut him off sharply. "You know that isn't true. She won't. Rose doesn't have eyes for anything or anyone other than you. She hasn't since the night you met." Jack flattened his hands on his knees. "I didn't ask to come into her life."

"But you didn't leave."

"She didn't want me to." _Are we really still having this fight? _Jack sighed. "That's not what this is about. Don't tell me that now you care—now after ten years—you care again that I married her. You know she's been happy with me. You know I've taken care of her."

"I can't deny you've turned out remarkably well—better than I ever imagined, actually. Though your refusal to give up those street urchin eccentricities you prize so highly keeps you from doing even better. Of course, she doesn't mind. You needn't say it." Ruth's tone was calm, clipped, her politeness itself a jab. "She would put the moon in your hands and Mars at your feet if she could. She thinks the stars are named after your eyes."

"She is the moon," he said quietly.

Ruth's mouth curled in disgust. "And as such she must be protected? Some things must be kept from her?"

"I never said that. I don't—Why would you—Look, whatever you think I'm doing, I'm not. There is nothing going on that she doesn't know about." He pointed at the door. "I haven't done anything to hurt her. I don't have to convince her to believe me either. She trusts me."

"Oh yes, I know she trusts you. She always has." Somehow Ruth transformed the statement into an accusation. "Why is that a bad thing? She _can_ trust me!" Jack's voice rose slightly. He closed his mouth and breathed deeply, blue eyes flashing and jaw tight. "I didn't come down here to fight with you," he began. "We're leaving soon, and I don't want things left like this when we go. I want us to be friends again."

Ruth considered his words. "I expected you would leave," she said finally. "You always do."

"How can we not? This isn't our home."

"You never tried to make it so either." She clapped her mouth shut. _Damn him for making me forget myself. _That was his talent. He could make you forget everything, and before you knew it you were spilling out all your innermost thoughts. That's how he got Rose. He made you think it was safe to speak. But it wasn't. It never was. "Go on then," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Take her away again."

"That isn't what I'm doing. I never…Is that why…You think I took her?" Ruth didn't respond. "You do. You think I keep her away from you."

"She chose you," Ruth said coldly. "She always chooses you. It doesn't matter what I say."

"But you were wrong," he said. "Stella and I aren't—there isn't anything—That could _never_ happen! And why didn't you talk to me first? Don't I deserve that?"

"Perhaps you did. Perhaps I should have tried harder to speak with you." She sighed without meaning to. "Perhaps I never realized how much you had ingratiated yourself into my affections."

…..

Rose leaned out the open window, smiling. A cool breeze blew her hair back. _Spring will be here soon. _The street below was quiet save for a few cars driving discreetly by. She took a deep breath; the cool air filled her lungs. It felt wonderful until she let the breath out. She cupped her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her coughing. Her chest burned when it ended.

"Beautiful day," Jack said. His warm breath tickled her ear. "It is," she said wistfully. He kissed her hair. "I promised you a walk." She nodded. "I know." But she didn't move. "What's wrong, Rose?" She looked at her hands. They were almost as white as the pearl on her ring. "Can we really not go home?"

"We really can't," he said. "It won't be good for you." He put his arm around her waist. "We'll be travelling again though. You wanted to do that." She leaned against him. "I know. I just didn't expect it to be like this. And how can we just whisk the children away?"

"They'll be fine," he said reassuringly. "Remember that time you told me you wanted to raise our kids to be tumbleweeds?" He smiled into her neck. "Well, now we can." She twisted her fingers around his. "And maybe this will be a good thing for them," she said. "They've been having so many problems…maybe a new place will be good for them. Get them away from petty expectations and social games. Let them be free, like we were." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Like we are." She moved her head so their lips would meet. "Like we are," she said kissing him.

Her waist felt tiny in his hands. He pressed her to him. She sighed and looped an arm around his neck. His hair slid between her fingers like silk. The kiss deepened. His hands slowly moved up her. She tilted her head. He took the hint, moving his lips to her neck. She gasped when he gently bit down. A tingling began between her legs. "Jack…"

"Yes, miss?" His hands cupped her breasts. His lips moved across her throat. "Jack, I—" she began. A knock on the door cut her off. They froze. "Ignore it," she said quickly, pressing her hands over his. She caught his lips with her before he could reply. But there was another knock, more insistent this time. Jack groaned. "Go away…"

A light female voice called "Miss?"

"Y-yes?" Rose stammered. Jack kissed her breasts through her dress. She swallowed a sigh. "There's a man to see you, Miss." She forced herself to sound calm. "Did he give his name? Jack, don't," she added in a whisper. "You told me to ignore it," he said with a quiet laugh. She ran her fingers through his hair. "I didn't listen to myself."

"Brannigan, Miss. He says he has business with you."

Rose sighed. "I suppose I have to go speak to him."

"Your mother wishes to know if you intend to see him. Are you feeling well enough?"

"Say you aren't feeling up to it," Jack said. "I'll get rid of 'im." She shook her head. "I need to finish this before we leave. It's the whole reason I came here. And really, I don't mind him. He's a lot pleasanter than the first man they sent me to."

"That guy's the pleasant one?" Jack asked incredulously. "What was the first one like?"

Rose quickly ran a brush through her curls. "Arrogant. Insulting." She straightened her dress. "Insufferable."

"Funny, that's how I woulda described that one," Jack murmured.

"What?"

"Oh, nothin." He smiled at her reflection in the mirror. "You look beautiful. And your dress is fine." She grinned mischievously. "I don't look like I've just had a pair of beautiful hands on me?"

He laid his hands on her waist. "No, but we can change that if you want." She leaned back against him. "We must."

"Rose, are you coming down?" Now it was her mother's voice. Rose gave Jack's hands a quick kiss. "After this."

**AN: Thank you to everyone for reviewing! **


	18. Chapter 18

The air was thick with tension. Rose felt it the moment they entered the front sitting room. Ruth sat in her usual place on the couch, hands clasped on her lap. Her lips were thin and pressed together tightly as though she were trying to hold back words. Phillip sat across from her. He stood up when he saw Rose, a look of relief in his eyes. He smiled toothily and held out his hand. His smile dimmed slightly when he saw Jack. Jack grinned over Rose's head. "Do sit down," Rose said pleasantly. She glanced from the couch he occupied to her mother's. She chose a seat next to her mother. Jack took the very end of the couch. Their knees pressed together. Without thinking she reached over and took his hand. "I'm sorry for the wait," Rose said turning to Phillip. "I'm still not quite well yet, I'm afraid."

"No need for apologies," Phillip said with a wave of his hand. "If I understand correctly you've been quite ill these recent weeks." Rose nodded. "Yes, it seems I've been borderline consumptive." Phillip's features formed a mask of astonishment. "Just borderline? I don't think I've ever seen anyone not go over the edge. You've been very lucky indeed." She squeezed Jack's hand. "I had wonderful care." Phillip glanced at Jack. "Yes, I'm sure," he said a trace of amusement in his tone. "Mr. Dawson, I didn't know you doubled as a nurse." Jack's jaw tightened. "I've got a lot of talents."

"Indeed you do. Not the least of which is finding a wife," Phillip said turning his smile on Rose. She returned it, but there was a coolness in hers. _I'm beginning to see what Jack meant. _When it had been just the two of them she found him interesting. He wasn't half as charming as he wanted to be, but he was pleasant. Now just the sound of his voice was repugnant. His words came out thick, the edges rounded off. _Just get through this. _"You wanted to see me about business," she said. "I've kept you waiting long enough. Why don't we discuss that?"

"Oh yes, business," Phillip said. "Yes, fine. Well—" He reached into a leather bag next to his feet. "I need you to sign these." He handed Rose a sheaf of papers. She flipped through them. "More? It seems impossible that there could be even more to sign. I—"

"Mama!" Monica cried bursting into the room. "Mama, you're up!" She threw herself onto Rose's knees. "Yes, darling," Rose said hugging her. She smoothed her curls. "Where's your brother?"

"He's coming. He didn't believe I heard you so he didn't run," Monica said. Rose laughed. "And how far did you run?"

"From the back hallway. Did you know the floors are so slick if I take my shoes off I can just slide across on my socks?" she asked. "I did know," Rose said. She added in a whisper, "I did that a few days ago." Monica giggled. She whipped her head around as Anthony came in. "I told you I heard her!" she said. He hurried over to Rose. "You couldn't have," he argued. Rose put an arm around him. She kissed the top of his head. "Perhaps she did," she said. "Now, can the two of you do something for me?" They nodded. "Alright. I have to finish something here, and while I am I want you to—" They leaned closer to her as she began to whisper. "Now, go," she said a moment later.

"What did you send them off to do?" Jack asked when they were gone. Rose shook her head. "It's a secret." She straightened the papers on her lap. "I apologize," she said. "Do you need these signed now?"

"Yes, now if you please," Phillip said. He looked more than a little disconcerted. "I can have them filed this afternoon."

"I'm afraid I don't have a pen. Mother, do you?"

"No," Ruth said. "Rose, why don't you go into the study and look them over?" Rose hid her confusion. "Yes, I'll do that," she said. She glanced at Jack, who was looking at Ruth. "I'll be back in a moment."

They sat in silence until the echo of Rose's footsteps died away. "You have beautiful children," Phillip began. "Thanks," Jack said shortly. "It's because they look like their mother."

"Ah—will you be staying much longer?"

"No," Jack answered. "We're leaving in a few days."

"For home, I presume."

"India."

Ruth shot him a quick look but remained silent. "India?" Phillip said clearly impressed. "That's quite an exotic destination."

"It's for Rose," Jack explained. "She needs a hot, dry climate for a while." Rose reappeared a moment later. "I think I finished them all," she said brightly. Phillip stood up and reached out to take the papers. "I'm sure you did," he said. "My office will be contacting you within the week. It was a pleasure seeing you again." Rose smiled and shook his hand. "You're too kind." He bowed in Ruth's direction and curtly nodded at Jack. He still felt Jack's eyes on him as he walked out the front door and down the steps.

"Well, that was certainly interesting," Rose said. "I can't say I'm not relieved the whole process is over now." She laughed nervously, all too aware of the heavy silence in the room. She moved closer to Jack. "I forgot what kind of sycophants there are in the world." He smiled reassuringly. "It's not so bad," he said. "We'll just try harder to avoid 'em."

"That should be simple in a place like India," Ruth said. Rose ignored the traces of sarcasm in her tone. "Did Jack tell you we were going?" she asked not bothering to hide her excitement. She grabbed his hands and squeezed them. "Yes, he told me," Ruth said. "Rose, what possessed you to think such a move would be a good idea?"

"Oh Mother, don't act as if this shocks you. You know how much I love to travel."

"Yes, but there is a difference between traveling and going off to socially barren wastelands. What will you do there?"

"Why must we do anything?" Rose asked. "Why can't we just explore something new?" She smiled at Jack. "And Jack can be inspired by completely unfamiliar scenes, create something even more extraordinary than what he already has." His eyes made her forget Ruth was in the room. "I'll just paint you," he said softly. He brushed her curls away from her face. His thumb brushed her temple. "Put a desert flower behind your ear." She laughed. "You'll forget all about me when we get there and you see how many more interesting things there are to draw."

"Rose?" Stella's voice brought them out of their reverie. She turned toward her. "Yes?" Stella hung back in the doorway. "The children asked me to come find you," she said. "Something about having done what you asked them to."

"Oh yes!" Rose said. "Come with me, you can help," she added. She gave Jack a quick kiss. "You need to work, remember?" He nodded. "I remember." There was a stack of drawings he needed to send out, and another stack of rough sketches he needed to finish. Rose and Stella hurried out of the room, heads close together and whispering. Jack turned to go.

"Jack."

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"Do you really think taking her to such an uncivilized place is the best choice?" Ruth asked. "I didn't make the choice," he said. "She did. I told her what our options were." Ruth sighed. "And you couldn't have done something to steer her in a more appropriate direction? No, don't answer that. I already know what you'll say. You always say the same thing."

"It never stops being true."

"Can't you for once be the authority in this marriage? Rose is a smart girl, but she doesn't think. She never considers the consequences of her actions. She dives impulsively into whatever looks most attractive in the moment without ever considering where she will land. You are smarter than that, and I know it. You try to hide it with those eccentricities, but you're smart."

"Did you just say I'm smart?" were the only words Jack could get out. Ruth sighed again, impatiently this time. "You are intelligent enough to have survived the world without the benefit of money or friends," she said. "A girl like Rose could never have done that."

"You underestimate her too much. She's stronger than you want to believe, and she's capable of making her own decisions. If I really thought what she wanted would hurt her or any one of us, I'd say so."

"But why India?" Ruth sounded defeated. "Why not somewhere in Europe? Why not Italy? Why not somewhere…somewhere better?" He saw the unasked question in her eyes. " Rose didn't want Italy. Keats died there," he explained. Ruth all but rolled her eyes. "You could come though," he offered. She shook her head. "Jack, you must be getting her fever. Come along while you two let your children run wild and behave like fools who don't realize what grave social mistakes they're making? While you and that girl carry on behind Rose's back?"

"For the last time," Jack began angrily. "We are not—"

"I know."

"What?"

"I know. Perhaps a part of me always knew. You are too….Men don't behave like you," she said. "A wife is not enough. But as long as everyone remains separate, they can carry on."

"Not with me. I don't want that." His tone left no room for argument. He turned again to leave. "I mean it though," he added over his shoulder. "If you want to, you can come. If you're worried about her or about the kids….come with us."


	19. Chapter 19

The sun shone bright and clear the day they left Philadelphia. The children were still rubbing their eyes when they boarded the train that would take them home. Stella walked behind them, a hand on each small shoulder. Rose leaned on Jack, grateful for his strong arm around her waist. The cool air burned her lungs with each breath. She told herself he couldn't hear how much she struggled to draw in each breath, but he did. He tightened his grip on her and slowed their pace. "Almost there," he said. She replied with a smile.

Before they knew it they were settled onto the train, and the countryside was whizzing by. The children fell asleep immediately, using each other as pillows. Stella propped a book on her knee. Rose laid her head on Jack's shoulder and stared out the window, her mind still humming with the morning's events. Breakfast was a tense affair. Her mother barely spoke. Her silence hung over the table like a dark cloud filled with words instead of rain. She greeted everyone amiably, which made her silence all the more puzzling. As they were leaving, she kissed Anthony and Monica, hugged Rose, and gave Jack's hand a brief squeeze. A look passed between them that Rose couldn't decipher.

"What are you thinking about?" Jack murmured. Rose raised her head quickly. "What?" She looked around confused. "Oh. Nothing." She laid her head back down. "I was just letting my mind wander," she said. He studied her face. "Are you sure? That was a pretty intense stare you had there."

"I'm sure, Jack," she said. She hugged his middle. "I wasn't thinking about anything that matters." He didn't say anything, but he kept watching her face, sure there was something she wasn't telling him.

The journey was over quickly. The sun was rising when they walked into the house, marveling at the fine layer of dust covering everything. Rose gathered the pile of mail by the door into her arms and began to sort through it. "I'll make sure they actually pack," Stella said as she began following Anthony and Monica up the stairs. Rose nodded, her eyes fixed on the envelope in her hand. Jack touched her arm. "Rose Petal?"

"Hmm?"

"What is it?"

"It's from the children's school." She turned the envelope over and began to open it. "What do you think it is?" he asked. "I don't know," she said. "It's postmarked weeks ago." She had just unfolded the letter when Monica appeared at the top of the stairs. "Mama, will you come help me?"

Rose refolded the letter and stuck it in the envelope. "Of course, darling," she said. "Stella's helping you," Jack said. "She's helping Anthony now," Monica replied. "You can wait," Jack said mildly. "Your mother's busy."

"No Jack, I'll go up. We can read these later." She laid the mail down on the hall table. "It will go faster that way. We have to leave tonight if we want to make the next train to California, don't we?"

"You're right." He gave her hand a quick caress. "Don't do too much?"

"Don't worry about me so much?" she said with a grin.

Between Rose and Stella the children's things were packed quickly. Stella went downstairs to work on shutting up the house while Rose went to work packing her own things. At first she just stood in the bedroom doorway surveying the room. The bed was unmade. A dusty glass of water sat on the bedside table. A pile of Jack's clothes was on the floor. She shook her head and laughed quietly. "We have to stop leaving so quickly," she said as she began picking up the clothes. She didn't bother checking whether or not they were dirty before tossing them into the laundry basket. She was making the bed when Jack came in.

"You don't have to do that," he said. "It can wait until we get back."

"I'll feel better if I do," she said. She smoothed the sheets. "I like to think it's waiting for us." Her expression took on a new solemnity. "We won't be back for a long time, will we?"

"No," Jack said. "I don't know when we'll be back. Not until you're well again." She sat down slowly. "And that could be years," she said. He nodded. "Yeah…But it's alright," he added sitting down next to her. "We'll come back." He took her hand. "I promise. We have a home. We can't stay away forever."

"What if I'm never well enough? What if coming back will only make me sick again?"

"We'll deal with that if it happens," he said. "But we don't know that's gonna happen. Don't worry, Rose."

"I'm trying not to," she said quietly. "I can't stop feeling as though there's something I don't know. I feel like there's something very important I'm supposed to know about." He put an arm around her shoulders. "There's a lot we don't know about," he said. "And we can't change that, ya know? But we can't worry about it. Just gotta take life as it comes at us."

"And make each day count?" she asked with a teasing smile. He cupped her cheek. "Exactly," he said. "Now, where've I heard that before?"

"A very smart man once told me that."

"Oh really? Do I know him?" His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips. Suddenly he was very aware of the rise and fall of her chest. His fingertips brushed her arm below her sleeve. "I'm not sure," she said. "I think you would like him though." She couldn't decide if her difficulty breathing was being caused by the humidity in the air or the look in Jack's eyes. His thumb lightly rubbed her cheek. His hand slid down her arm. Her fingers curled around his shirt, and she leaned back slightly. Their lips met in a gentle kiss. She tugged on his shirt when he tried to pull back. "Don't," she said. She pressed her lips to his. "I miss you."

Her curls twisted around his fingers. His arm encircled her waist. He kissed her slowly and deeply as he laid her down. She sighed quietly. His lips moved across her neck and down her throat. She ran her fingers through his hair; the blonde locks were like silk against her skin. He undid the buttons on her dress easily. She giggled and lifted her shoulders so he could pull it down. "You've gotten so much better at that," she said. He chuckled and kissed her. "I've had a lot of practice."

It wasn't long before the rest of their clothes were discarded. Their hands moved quickly but tentatively, as though they had never touched one another. Rose traced stars on Jack's back with her fingertips as he kissed her breasts. She giggled when his hair brushed against her belly. He grinned up at her before bending down and shaking his head. She giggled again, louder this time. "Jack!"

He held her hips in his hands; she held his with her legs. "I missed you," she whispered again, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. He leaned down and kissed her. A groan escaped his throat as her hips began to move. "I missed you too, Rose Petal."

Rose closed her eyes. Jack's heart beat in her ears, and his arms were tight around her. He slowly ran his fingers through her curls. "That was wonderful," she said softly. He kissed her forehead. "It was perfect."

"You always say that," she said. He kissed her cheekbone. "And it always is. Because I'm making love to you." She nuzzled his chest. "I still can't believe I have you," she murmured happily.

"Believe it."

"That was quite authoritative."

"I was going more for firm, actually."

Rose laughed. "I promise not to express my incredulity ever again." Jack slowly began to roll her over. "You can express all the incredulity you want," he said. "I'll just have to try harder to make you believe you've got me."

"And how do you intend to do this? I can be quite difficult to convince," she said, a trace of haughtiness in her voice. His lips brushed throat. "Oh, you'll see, miss."

When the knock on the door came Rose's ragged breathing was due entirely to Jack. "Y—yes?" she stammered, struggling to sound normal. If Stella detected anything unusual in her voice she didn't let on. "There's someone downstairs for you," she said. "He says he's from the children's school—the principal."

"We'll be right down," Rose said. "Tell him to wait a moment."

Jack raised his head. "What'd she say?"

Rose sighed. "She said we have to go downstairs and pretend to be nice, respectable people." He gave her thigh on last kiss. "I'm not sure any amount of pretending will convince that guy we're nice and respectable," he said. She couldn't help but laugh. "Don't say that, Jack. Our children's education is in that man's hands."

"Not anymore," Jack pointed out. "We're leaving."

"You're right," she said. "But all the same…."

"I know." He took her hand and helped her to her feet. His arms snaked around her waist. "But it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. We know the truth."

They dressed quickly and hurried down the stairs—at first they hurried, but after a few steps Rose couldn't keep up with Jack's pace. He slipped his hand into hers silently. They moved slowly, as a unit. "How're you breathing?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she insisted. But her lungs ached more with each breath.


	20. Chapter 20

James Prescott shifted in his chair. Jack and Rose's eyes bored into his skull. He cleared his throat, but the words still stuck in his throat. His speech, so well prepared, so convincing and articulate in his office , he now feared was flat. Rose spoke first. Her voice rang out, cool and clear with the confidence of a woman well versed in reducing others to a position of inferiority. "Mr. Prescott, why exactly have you come here?"

"Well, I haven't received an answer to my last letter or an answer to any of my telephone calls, so I thought this would be the best way to pin you down." He relaxed slightly. His voice did work after all. "In fact, I was becoming a bit concerned at your lack of communication." Jack and Rose exchanged a quick glance. _The letter._ Rose tried to remember what else had been in the stack of mail, but it was just a blur of white paper. Sensing her stirring anxiety, Jack reached over and slipped his hand into hers. She gave it a brief squeeze, glad all over again for his presence at her side. "We're sorry to have given you such trouble," she said. "We've been away for the last two months."

"Well, that certainly goes a long way toward explaining why your children haven't been in school."

Jack burst out. "What are you talking about?"James turned to him, momentarily startled. "I'm talking about your children's absence from school for the last two months. Mr. Dawson, I assume you are aware they have not been attending. I don't know how education is handled where you're from, but here we take it very seriously." He settled back into his chair with a satisfied air. Jack's eyes hardened. "I take everything that concerns my children seriously," he said flintily.

"I didn't mean to imply you—" James began. He stopped, deflated. A snippet of the speech found its way to his lips. "This is a serious problem," he said. "And something must be done about it. I presume you agree." They nodded. "And furthermore," he went on warming to his subject, "I know you're aware of the problems your children have been having, particularly your son. I was actually not entirely surprised when he didn't show up at school for a few days, but your daughter's absence was quite surprising."

In the back of his mind Jack had known for a few weeks that the children probably should be back in school, that whatever had been keeping them out should have been long over, but he had never allowed it to become a priority. They were fine as they were; better actually, than they had been while in school. And there was Rose to think about. _But that's not any excuse. I can't ignore one for the other. _But now he saw there had never been any reason for them to be out of school at all. He pushed away the confusion and anger that threatened to cloud his mind.

"We actually just arrived this morning," Rose was saying. "In fact, we needed to speak with you about making arrangements for the children."

"What kind of arrangements? Though now, I have to tell you, there's no way they can make up the amount of time missed. There's just nothing I can do," James said. He wondered briefly if Rose could tell he was lying. _Can't very well tell her I just don't want to take the trouble. Especially not for hoity-toity Yankees who want to pretend they're like everybody else. _

"Making up the time wouldn't be possible anyway," Rose said. "We're leaving this evening." James's shock overcame his joy. "Where are you going?" he blurted out. "India," Rose answered.

"Why there of all places?"

"Health reasons," Jack said. "My wife has been very ill." Calling her "my wife", though at that moment it sounded stilted, always made him smile. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," James said sheepishly. His eyes darted to Rose's face. She did look thinner, paler even. "We're going for her recovery," Jack explained. "It has the kind of climate she needs." James nodded. "Yes, I understand. I suppose that means you'll be continuing the children's education elsewhere? Sending them away to school?"

"No," Rose said. "We're taking them with us."

"Of course you are," James said. _And why wouldn't you be? _

Before the afternoon was over the story had spread across town growing wilder and wilder as it passed from person to person. By the final telling Jack and Rose were "Hiin-doos", a word that no-one knew the meaning of though they all repeated it with the utmost seriousness, unfit to associate with decent folks, and wanted their children to grow up heathens.

…

Rose sighed heavily and earned a burning cough for her efforts. She reached into her dress pocket for a handkerchief, but it was empty. Covering her mouth with her hand, she swore under her breath. "Here," Jack said pressing a handkerchief into her free hand. She accepted it gratefully. "Thank you," she said when the coughing subsided. He hugged her from behind. Silently, he buried his face in her curls. She covered his hands with hers. "What's wrong, Jack?"

"I need to talk to our kids," he murmured. She waited for him to continue. "You know, we came up there because they told me they didn't have school? But I stopped thinking about it once we got there." His voice was thick with mixed emotions. "Maybe I'm not such a great father." She whirled around. "Don't say that," she said firmly. She held his face in her hands. Pressing her forehead to his, she said, "Jack, don't think that. You are a wonderful father."

"I don't know when my kids are lying to me."

"They aren't that old. I'm sure this is the first time either of them has lied about anything of any importance. Did you think you would know every time? How do you know what to look for if you've never seen it?"

"You have a point," he admitted grudgingly. "But I still shoulda paid more attention. I shoulda thought about it more before running up there. I just wanted to go. I saw a chance, and I jumped on it."

"That doesn't make you a bad father. Am I a bad mother for leaving?"

"No. But you left them with me, and I wasn't responsible. I just did what I wanted without thinking about the consequences. And what if we weren't leaving? How would we deal with this?"

"Aren't you the one who once told me not to worry about things that haven't happened?" She softly stroked his cheek. "We would have found a way, just like we always do. And perhaps this happened for a reason."

"Yeah, maybe." He pressed his hand over hers. "How're you feeling?"

…..

Monica knew Anthony's thinly constructed lie was about to be demolished when she heard Stella tell her parents Mr. Prescott was downstairs. The sound of Jack's step on the landing only confirmed it. She waited in her room, silently cursing her brother as best she could. What she lacked in vocabulary and understanding she more than made up for in passion. She looked Jack in the face when he came in. For a moment he was startled by the frankness of her expression. "You already know, don't you?" he asked. She nodded. "I know what he came to tell you."

"And what do you have to say about it?"

"It was Anthony's idea." She said it without hesitation. It didn't matter that she hadn't wanted to tell the truth any more than he had. The fact was the lie itself had been his idea. Jack's expression remained impassive. "Why did you go along with it?"

"I…." He would know if she lied. His eyes were fixed on her face, searching for any sign of deception. "I had to," she said lamely, dropping her head. Jack's voice softened. "Why?"

"I—we couldn't go back to school." She peered up at him through her curls. She couldn't read his face. The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened. "Something happened," she said. "And we couldn't be there for awhile."

"What happened?" he asked. Her head dropped again. She sighed heavily. "You won't—you won't be happy about it."

"Monica Rosebud."

"The fight was over me," she said. She rushed on before Jack could respond. "Anthony fought again, after school, that's why he didn't get in trouble. He won. But he wasn't going to win the next one—the one he had to do the next day. And it didn't matter anyway because no-one was going to even _think _of talking to me after that. It was bad enough when people thought we were weird, but I could handle that. Things would've been fine if he hadn't been so stubborn. If he'd just blended in like I do."

Jack was unprepared for the onslaught of information. _What the hell happens when they leave every day? How can we know so little? _"Why'd this happen? I don't understand. How was it over you?"

"I stopped being friends with Fanny Wilson," she said slowly, as though she were the adult and he the child. "Okay," he said. "She started saying things," she explained, "and then it was me against the girls who agreed with her or who didn't want her to stop liking them. And then her brother Lee came into it. And then Anthony came into it."

"What kind of things?" He asked even though he was sure he knew the answer. Monica hesitated before blurting out, "Did you really draw women without any clothes on?" Jack's face registered his shock for only a moment. "Um…yeah, I did," he said. _Why lie? She'll just hear it again and wonder why I didn't tell the truth. _"When I was young," he added. "But that wasn't all I drew. I drew just about everything I saw. And there isn't anything wrong with drawing nudes. Just about every artist does."

"Like Botticelli."

A grin flickered around his mouth. "Right."

"Did you draw Mama like that?"

Jack opened his mouth and then closed it again. His unspoken promise to never lie to his children had never received such a test. "That's really a question for when you're older," he said finally. "Why do you wanna know?"

"Lee said you did. He said he heard his parents talking about how you stole her away from someone else and got her to let you draw her without any clothes on."

Jack clenched his jaw. "What else did he say?"

…..

Isaac Wilson had just stepped onto his porch when Jack appeared at the end of the path leading to his house. His eyes narrowed. _What's he doin here? _He nodded when Jack was within earshot. "Hey," he said.

Jack stopped at the bottom of the steps. "I need to have a conversation with you." He bit off the edges of his words. A blue fire burned in his eyes. Isaac regarded him with curiosity. "What about?" he said.

"The things you let your children hear."

Isaac stiffened. "And what business is it of yours? Way I see it you don't do such a great job raising your own kids."

"We're talking about you." Jack had a vague sense that he was crossing a line, but he didn't let that stop him. "I don't care what you think about me. I don't care what you say about me. But I damn well care what you say about my wife and what my children hear about it from yours."

"I don't know what one of those brats said they heard from one of my kids, and I don't care. If you don't like what people say you shouldn't give them anything to talk about."

Jack forced himself to breathe evenly. "You don't think very highly of women do you?"

Isaac's brow furrowed. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Because your son wouldn't speak to girls the way he does if you did." Jack's body tensed. It was all he could do not to rush at Isaac, whose confusion was melting into a smirk. Monica's voice echoed in his ears. His hand curled into a fist.

…

"Where were you?" Rose asked when he walked back into the house. "Just taking care of something," he said. He kissed her cheek. "Is everyone ready to go?" She nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on his. "Stella's just finishing a call to the University."

"Good. We'll leave when she's done." He brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. Rose gasped at the sight of his hand. "Jack, what happened?" She grabbed his hand before he could answer. His knuckles were swollen and already covered with a dark bruise. She gently ran a fingertip across it. "Darling, what happened?"

"It was nothing. I'll tell you about it on the train."


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: Thanks to everyone that's reviewed!**

_Two Days Later_

Keeping her gaze firmly straight ahead Stella murmured "Excuse me" as the woman passed. It was the third time they had nearly bumped into each other since boarding the ship the day before. Their encounters lasted mere moments, and yet Stella was beginning to dread them. There was something about the woman that felt familiar. Her dresses were beautiful, if somewhat overdone. The time and money that went into making them was obvious, as was her desire to be seen. She barely glanced at Stella, her eyes flicking coldly across her, taking in her well-made though simple dress before turning away with a just audible sniff. Stella shook her head and unlocked the door to her stateroom. _You're just looking for something to over-analyze._

She dropped into a chair with a sigh. The children were occupied in their own rooms—finally—and Jack and Rose had wandered off giggling. She had the afternoon to herself. She reached into the bag next to her chair and pulled out a book. The slip of paper keeping her page hadn't moved in days. "And that just won't do," she said to herself.

….

The wind was cold, but the sun was warm on Rose's face. She leaned against Jack, grateful for his warmth. She reached over and took his hand. She traced the outline of his bruises with her fingertips. "You never told me what happened," she said. He flipped their hands over and laced their fingers together. "I took care of something," he said. "Oh, that explains everything," she replied. "My questions have all been answered." He kissed her hair. "Good to know."

She rolled her eyes. "Jack…."

"Yes?"

"I already know what happened, don't I?" He didn't answer. She sighed. "Everywhere we go we incur the wrath of _some_one," she said. He wrapped his free arm around her waist. "Don't think like that," he said. "And even if we pissed off a few people, it doesn't matter now."

"Because we're leaving? Is that really the answer? Run away when things get too difficult?"

"We're not running away." His hand flattened and pressed lightly against her ribs. "We're doing what's best for your health, and ultimately, it's what's best for all of us."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do," he said. "We're getting the kids away from something that wasn't good for them, and we're traveling again. How long's it been since we did that?"

"Longer than I care to think about," she said. "We kept finding reasons not to go. I never thought we would do that…." She laughed quietly. "You're right. You never know what life's gonna throw at you."

He stared at her incredulously. "Did you just say 'gonna'?"

….

Hot water rushed across Jack's legs. He let himself sink against the tub, a grin spreading across his face. He stretched his arms above his head before draping them across the tub's sides. He ignored the hair falling over his eyes. A wall of bubbles grew around him. "I thought we were taking a bath," he said. "Well, _you_ are," Rose replied. Her gaze drifted slowly over him. "I'm keeping you company."

"Keep me company in here."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly," she said politely. Her eyes sparkled with laughter. "Jack, I couldn't intrude on something as intimate as a bath." He locked eyes with her. "Rose," he said, slowly and deliberately, "Get in the tub." She shook her head, holding back a smile. Keeping his eyes on hers, he moved to the other side of the tub. She didn't think about stepping back until he was reaching for her. "Jack, no!" she cried laughing as water splashed over her feet.

…..

Jack wrapped his legs around Rose's hips. "Isn't it better to be in the tub with me?" he asked. Laughing, she pretended to struggle against his embrace. "No! I'm wet! Jack, how could you?" He laughed. "I'm not sure if I should apologize for getting you wet," he said running a hand across her stomach.

"Twisting my words, are you?" she said haughtily. "I knew I knew better than to accept an invitation from such a—" Her words morphed into sigh. Her skin was slick from the soap in the water. Jack's hands slipped across her. "A rude, uncouth, and presumptuous poor guy like me?" he murmured in her ear. "You aren't any of those things," she said. "You never were. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You were thinking I was asking questions you didn't even want to ask yourself."

"You always know how to get right to the heart of things, don't you?"

"I think it's part of my gift," he joked. Without a word she twisted around and kissed him.

….

The bed was soft and warm; Rose sank into it. Keeping her eyes closed, she lifted her head just long enough for Jack to put an arm around her. He pulled the blankets over them and hugged her tightly. "It's only three in the afternoon," he whispered. "Can't believe you're so tired." She murmured an unintelligible reply. "What was that?" he teased. Groaning, she buried her face in his chest. "It's your fault," she mumbled. "Making me take a bath…."

A yawn escaped his throat. He kissed the top of her curls and closed his eyes. "But it was a fun bath," he said.

…

Stella and the children had just sat down in the dining room when Jack and Rose entered. They walked quickly, hands clasped and whispering. "Hello darlings," Rose said cheerfully. She placed a kiss on top of Anthony and Monica's heads. Hiding smiles, they exchanged quick glances. Jack couldn't stop grinning. He felt lighter than he had in months. He didn't care about the curious glances being cast their way. Rose didn't even notice them. She ate ravenously. Food had never tasted so good; it was as if she had been surviving on stale bread and warm water for months. No sooner would her plate be emptied than Jack would motion with his hand and a new one would be put in front of her.

Monica sat stiffly, her back straight as a board. She took tiny bites and barely moved her jaw when she chewed. Her eyes roamed the dining room, but she didn't say a word. Speaking would have broken her concentration. The only conversation was between Stella and Anthony, but when it was over neither of them was sure what had been said.

The moon glowed overhead. The deck stretched out before them. Jack and Rose strolled along the deck hand in hand. Monica and Anthony ran ahead, eager to explore. Stella kept up a steady pace behind them, lost in her own thoughts. Jack ran his thumb across Rose's knuckles. "Happy?" he asked. She nodded and smiled. "Something seems a bit familiar about this," she said.

"What could be familiar about you and me taking a walk on a ship?"

She pointed to a spot just above his head. "What could be familiar about you and I taking a walk on a ship and seeing a shooting star?"

"Well, I'll be damned," he said with a grin. He pulled her closer. "Wish for something."

"I wish you would tell me the whole story about your hand."

He sighed. "I thought we already went over that."

"We circled the topic, and then you decided you simply could not go another minute without a bath."

"I believe you enjoyed that bath—"

"That's not the point," she said. "Jack, what are you trying to protect me from? I know you hit someone—quite hard judging by the condition of your hand. And I know it had something to do with the children."

"And you."

Confusion filled her eyes. "And me? Why—Oh. Of course," she said. "As always." She let out a mirthless laugh. "And to think the original drawing doesn't even exist anymore." Jack stared at their hands. His fingers moved slowly over hers. "Jack?" She lightly touched his cheek. "Jack?" His head shot up. "Yeah?"

"What are you not saying?"

"You know how kids hear their parents talk?"

She nodded, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. "What did they say?"

…

Cal swore under his breath and rolled over. He frowned. The pillow was too hot on either side. The mattress was too soft. His room was stuffy. When he closed his eyes he was overwhelmed by an urge to sneeze. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so tired and yet wide awake. "Goddamn it."

He was just about to get up when he heard it. He froze. "What—" There it was again, a low moan. He searched the room with his eyes. Empty, as expected. The door was closed and locked. Cynthia was next door in her own room, but the sound wasn't coming from her room. It came from the room on the other side. He crawled to the other side of his bed. Holding his breath, he pressed his ear against the wall.

It was a woman. As her moaning steadily grew louder Cal smiled to himself. If he had to be awake there were worse things to hear. A series of giggles rang out followed by a groan that was distinctly male in origin. He grabbed a pillow and settled in for the night, eager to hear what else his neighbors got up to.

He had just begun to consider going over to Cynthia's room when he heard something that made his blood run cold.

"Jack! Jack!"

"Rose!"

Cal let his head fall against the wall. "Goddamn it!" he hissed.


	22. Chapter 22

As he walked into the dining room the next morning Cal told himself the names he heard coming from the room next door were a coincidence. Even if they had the money to book a first class passage, which he doubted despite the repeated assertions of the more "culturally inclined" members of his circle about the monetary value of Jack's work, he was sure they would never actually do so. It was common knowledge that they avoided civilized society. He was one of the first people in for breakfast. Cynthia wasn't even up yet. As he took a seat at the table in the corner reserved for them he cast a quick glance around the room—and gasped when his eyes met Jack's. He clapped his mouth shut, disgusted with himself for being taken by surprise. Jack just grinned and took a seat at a table on the other side of the room. He opened a leather-bound sketchbook and began to draw.

Cal tried not to look at him, but it was impossible to focus on anything else. _Why is he here?_He ate slowly, barely tasting the painstakingly prepared food. _And where is she? No, I don't care. It doesn't matter. _

Rose didn't even notice him when she walked in. She went straight to Jack. Cal couldn't hear what she said, but when the way she kissed Jack made her feelings quite clear. _Stop watching! What is wrong with me? I don't care about them. Where the hell is Cynthia? _

Jack tossed a look over his shoulder as they left. He wore an expression Cal felt certain Rose had never seen. His mouth was a hard line, his jaw was tight, as if holding something back, but it was eyes that had undergone the most radical change. They were like two bright blue diamonds shining with unspoken threats. Cal's own expression betrayed nothing.

…

"What a beautiful morning," Rose said happily. She leaned on the railing and looked down at the water. "Careful," Jack said. "You might lean over too far and lose your balance."

"Oh, I won't le—Jack Dawson, that isn't funny!"

"I'm not laughing."

"Your eyes are laughing quite enough for the both of us," she said drily. "And if you'll be so kind as to remember that night in more detail you'll remember it was for your sake I made up that absurd story."

Jack let his hands rest lightly on her waist. "In love with me already, huh?" he joked. She smiled politely. "You like to think that, don't you?" she said. He let his face brush her curls, inhaling their scent. Her hair still smelled the same even after ten years. "Fine. You were overwhelmed by my dashing good looks," he said.

"I was overwhelmed by your boldness, your obvious inability to ignore someone in trouble even when told repeatedly to go away, and my own stupidity, which had nearly killed both of us and was about to cause you, a rude but still innocent bystander, a great deal of harm. And your eyes had a little something to do with it as well," she added. He laughed. "Is that all?"

"Well, if you like I can tell you how I spent the rest of that night thinking about your hands," she said lightly. "You never told me that," he said, surprise thickening his voice. "I thought I was the only one that stayed up all night thinking."

"You stayed up all night thinking? About what?"

"Monet's _Waterlilies_." He hugged her from behind. "You, silly," he said, kissing her cheek. "I couldn't stop wondering what happened to make you give up so completely. I wanted to help you," he added softly.

"I'm sure you were surprised to see me again the next morning."

"Did I ever tell you I hoped you'd come? Crazy, huh?"

"It isn't any crazier than my seeking you out," she said. "To thank me," he said. "That was just you being polite."

"It wasn't only to thank you," she admitted. "I wanted to see you again."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. I shouldn't have. It was an absolutely absurd thing to do. Do you realize what Cal would have done to me if he had known I went to find you?" She laughed dryly. "Can you imagine if he had known I spent the entire day with you? He was angry enough when he discovered I danced with you." Instinctively he tightened his embrace. _How did we end up talking about that asshole? _"You never told me that," he said.

"Of course I did," she said. "Why wouldn't I have told you? Anyway, let's not waste any more words on it. It was ten years ago. It doesn't matter now." He kissed her temple. "You're right," he said. "Doesn't matter anymore."

…..

"Hhmm…" Jack said. He studied Monica's drawing carefully. "You see what you did here?" he said. She nodded. "That's where you lost the perspective," he explained. He flipped it over and sketched a few lines. "It should go like this."

"I wanted to change the focus," Monica said.

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't want it to be the person," she said. "I wanted it to be the windows." Intrigued, he flipped the paper over again. "Oh….Well, if you want to do that you have to shift everything over so the eyes of the person looking at it will go where you want them to."

"That's why I made the windows the biggest thing."

He chuckled quietly. "I guess that works too. But try moving everything a bit, okay? Just see how it changes." He leaned back in his chair and watched her go. She ran across the deck, flaming curls blowing back in the wind. "What are you thinking about?" Rose asked sitting down next to him.

"What did you look like as a kid?"

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"When you were a kid," he said, "What did you look like?"

"What did you look like?"

"I asked you first."

"I had long hair," she said. "And I wore it down, held back by the biggest, most elaborate bows you can imagine."

"What were they made of?"

"Oh, silk, lace—I had with slits cut in it so flowers could be added. Why are you so interested?"

Jack slowly ran his fingers through her hair. "I'm just trying to imagine it," he said. "I bet you were adorable." She rolled her eyes. "I was far from it," she said. "My hair was too long. My shoes were too small for my feet." She shook her head. "You don't want to see the photographs."

"I do," he insisted. He grinned. "Think your mother would send me one if I asked?" Rose's eyes widened. "Jack, don't!" she cried. "She'll never stop sending them if you tell her you want one."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Jack, no!"

"But I wanna see them," he said. "There aren't any of me."

"That's a pity." She took his hand. "I've always wanted one of you." He tilted his head. "Oh really?" he said. She sighed. "Fine. Ask for one. But don't you dare laugh!" she ordered. He kissed her knuckles. "I promise I won't laugh."

…..

"Jack!" Rose called. "Can you help me with my shoes?" He stepped into the bedroom, a piece of charcoal still between his fingers. Rose was bent forward, one foot on a stool. She half-heartedly pulled at the strap of her shoe. "I can't seem to get it," she said. He eyed her curiously. "I'll get it," he said. He tucked the charcoal behind his ear and kneeled down. He buckled the shoe easily. "Next one," he said with a grin. She leaned back, lifting her dress. His gaze traveled up her legs, from her smooth calf muscles to her bare thighs. When she lifted her other foot he understood exactly why she suddenly found herself unable to put on her own shoes.

Jack choked on his next breath. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough to completely disorient him. He stared at Rose's legs. "Jack?" she said smoothly. "Are you alright?" She shifted her dress. It slid up, stopping just before her thighs ended. "I'm fine," he said forcing himself to speak calmly.

"You don't usually carry your sketchbook like that," Rose said as they walked to dinner. He darted a glance at her. "Felt like carrying it this way tonight," he said simply. Smiling to herself, she slipped her arm through his. He resisted the urge to pull her closer.

Dinner was an excruciating affair. Jack couldn't concentrate on a word anyone said. Without meaning to, he found himself staring at Rose, studying her thin dress. His fingers twitched as he imagined taking it in his hands. When the meal finally ended his wanting of her had become an ache.

….

Rose gasped with delight when she felt Jack's hands on her. His arms encircled her waist. Slowly he pulled up her dress. He pressed himself into her back. "Why'd you do that?" he asked kissing her neck. Sighing, she let herself sink against him. "So you would do this," she said.

…..

Cal scowled into his pillow. It just wouldn't stop. It was nearly dawn, and the cries kept getting louder. It was as if they were in the room with him. At one point he heard a loud thump, as though a pair of bodies hit the floor, but no sooner did he hear it than he heard a round of loud giggling.

"Jack!" Rose screamed breathlessly.

Through clenched teeth, Cal hissed, "How is he still fucking her?" He grabbed a pillow and covered his head. It muffled Rose's cries, but just barely.

…..

Jack whistled as he waited for the elevator. His body was exhausted, but his mind was wide awake. His stomach growled. "Well, I'll beat the breakfast crowd," he said with a chuckle. He pretended not to notice when Cal stopped next to him. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at him. Cal looked immaculate, as always, but it was clear from looking at his eyes he hadn't slept. Anger radiated from him. He didn't speak as they stepped onto the elevator. The attendant nodded at them both before looking away quickly. Cal didn't argue when Jack named a destination.

"And where is your better half?" Cal asked. Jack stared at him. "What?" Cal gave him a withering look. "Rose."

Confused, Jack said, "Asleep." And then he understood. A grin spread across his face. "Exhausted," he added.


	23. Chapter 23

**AN: Finally I update! I am sorry for the delay! My life went crazy in a wonderful way. **

_Two Days Later_

_London_

Rose tried not to smile at her reflection. She slowly ran a hand over the bodice of the dress. The silk was cool and smooth to the touch; the embroidery took her breath away. The design was so intricate, so painstakingly detailed she couldn't almost couldn't believe a human hand created it. Jack's breath tickled her ear. "Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful. But it's simply too extravagant," she said turning to face him. "It isn't," he said. "Not if it makes you happy. I don't care what it costs."

"No, Jack. We can't do this. We _don't_ do this."

"Why not?" He took her hand. "We have the money. Why not enjoy it?" She opened her mouth to reply, but hesitated, unsure of what to say. "Would it be wrong?" he pressed. "Really, would we be terrible people if you admitted you liked an expensive dress and I admitted I want you to have it?"

"I'm not sure it's that simple," she said. "We spent so much on the tickets—and I know we agreed first class was the safest and most comfortable way for all of us to travel together, but we aren't on the ship anymore and yet we're still spending money as though we belong with those people." Jack kept his eyes on their clasped hands. "Do you think we do?" she asked, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer. "Do you want us to?"

"I don't know," he said. "I just know that my whole life everyone said I wasn't good enough—that I was nothing, I'd always be nothing—but then they changed their minds. Now I'm worthy of speaking to them, hell I'm sought out by the same people who wouldn'tve spit on me if I was on fire before, and yet all this time I've been pretending things haven't changed, acting like I still only have my name and $10."

"But Jack, _you_ haven't changed."

"And I don't intend to." He kissed her knuckles. "Rose, who we are isn't gonna change. I'm just tired of living in limbo—too rich for the people I grew up with and acting too much like a poor guy for the people who think they like me now."

"So what do you think we should do?"

"Enjoy ourselves," he said. "Because we can, Rose. If we want something, we can have it." A new light came into his eyes. "If you want a dozen dresses covered with pearls I can give them to you. I can give you anything—everything you deserve. I can give our family things I never even dreamed of. But I haven't been. And I keep wondering why."

Rose wore the dress for the rest of the day.

….

A warm breeze blew in from the open doors leading to the balcony. Jack sat just inside the room sketching the scene below. Rose tried to concentrate on the pile of knitting in her lap, but the stitches kept tangling. Her hands wanted to go one way, and her brain wanted to go another. Finally, when the yarn was knotted beyond recognition, she tossed it aside. Sighing, she crossed the room, inspecting each perfect detail as she moved. She ran her fingers across the mantel. Not a speck of dust; not even a hint that dust could ever occupy that space. She shook her head. "Not like at home," she murmured. Their mantels were always dusted—eventually, when Rose remembered to do it or Jack caught himself drawing in the dust. But there was no regular schedule, no attempt to keep the house up to a standard any higher than "lived in". Only the kitchen and bathrooms received a daily going-over. Rose dusted the books once a week, but only because she was afraid too much dust would destroy them. Jack kept the attic clean in a way that only he understood; the same went for the dark room.

She wandered into the bedroom, still marveling at the shining surfaces. _What's wrong with you?_ she heard her mother's voice ask. _You're behaving as though you grew up among savages. Cleanliness is not something you are experiencing for the first time. _She chuckled. But it felt like a new experience, at least cleanliness on this level. The bed was made, the coverlet pulled tight so not a wrinkle could be seen. Rose knew beneath the first layer was a set of crisp, freshly laundered sheets. They would smell of some kind of soft soap, thrown on at the end to mask the sharp scent of bleach. She wouldn't be able to wriggle the sheets from the mattress in that bed; the hands that put them on wouldn't let such a thing happen.

She sat down slowly. It wasn't like their bed at all. Their wrought-iron bed had never shown like this one. But this one was silver, and theirs wasn't. _"The night sky?" Jack said. She nodded. "With the stars twinkling." _

He ran a hand over the cool metal. "I can do that," he said, already lost in the vision of what he would create. "We'll have to sleep on the couch while it dries though." They slept curled around each other like kittens; Jack kept his back to the edge. Rose sighed as the memory faded.

"What's wrong?" Jack sat down next to her, sketchpad still in hand. She traced circles on the bed with her fingertips. "Rose?"

"It's nothing," she said. "I was just remembering."

"Was it a good memory?"

She smiled. "It was a wonderful memory…." She turned to him. "Remember when you painted our bed?" He nodded. "Yeah, of course I remember," he said. "I always meant to paint the wall behind it."

"You never told me that."

"It was gonna be a surprise. Stars as far as the eye could see." He passed his hand through the air. "A full moon and all the colors of the night sky." He smiled ruefully. "Just never got around to it." He cupped her cheek. "But what's making your eyes so heavy?"

"If I say it's nothing, I'm just tired, you won't let it go, will you?"

"Not a chance."

"And I'll feel you thinking about it when we go to bed."

"Yep."

"So I may as well just tell you."

"I can't do anything about it until you do."

Rose took his hands in hers. "I'm just a little overwhelmed," she said. "I can't stop thinking about what you said today, about being able to give us things. Do you think you didn't before?"

"I know I did. And I know that money isn't important—it isn't what makes us happy, but I don't know, I just think if it's been given to us we shouldn't pretend it isn't there all the time. It's like we got this gift that we never asked for and never expected and yeah, we didn't really want it, but now we've got it."

"So we shouldn't waste it?"

"More like we shouldn't act like comfort and security are things we don't want. I started putting money aside the first summer we were married so we would have something if we needed it."

"You said tumbleweeds don't save."

"They don't. They have no-one to care about saving for."

The look in Jack's eyes sent a shiver down her spine. "You're going to say it's all for me," she said. "Everything you've built, your career."

"All I ever wanted was to be a great artist," he said. "Drawing was what I cared about most. It was what made me the happiest. Drawings poured outta my hands, but that's all they did. I kept the ones I thought were best and sold the others for a few cents or gave 'em away. I was never gonna make any kind of a name for myself the way I was going. But then I met you, and everything changed. You gave me the motivation I needed to actually try." He kissed her fingertips. "You are my best friend, my wife, the person who made me what I am today."

Tears stung her eyes. "You were already amazing without me," she said. "You didn't need me. Everything you needed was already there—it's you."

He leaned forward and kissed her tenderly. "You brought it out."

…..

Jack lightly ran his fingertips over Rose's back. Her head lay on his chest, her arms draped across him. "Maybe you're right," she said. "Maybe we have been trying a little too hard to act like nothing has changed. I just don't want to look up one day and realize we've become _them_. I don't want to lose you."

He kissed her curls. "You won't. I promise."

Rose didn't argue the next morning when he handed her a pearl and sapphire necklace. She trusted him. And the happiness in his eyes was impossible to question.


	24. Chapter 24

The next few weeks were a glorious whirlwind. Rose forgot she had ever had any objections to Jack's new outlook on money. With him at her side she experienced wealth not as an oppressor but rather as a pleasure. Their names traveled across the city in hushed tones, buying them invitations into the most exclusive literary and artistic circles. Hesitant at first, they soon threw themselves into it. There was a sense of unreality about it all; the privileged intellectuals with their ever-changing range of accents may as well have been fairytale creatures come to life. At one party in Bloomsbury, Rose spent an hour discussing the "problem of the woman writer" with a dark-haired, beautifully, crisply accented birdlike woman whose name she never managed to learn though her husband Leonard kept Jack talking about his adventures in Ceylon for most of the evening.

They spent their days with the children, taking them to every museum, exhibit, and reading they could find. They went to the theatre, the ballet, and the opera, the last of which Monica fell in love with immediately. By the next afternoon her life's ambition had changed to include a career as an opera diva as well as an art career. She set about learning how to sing, which Jack responded to by promising her voice lessons once they reached India. Anthony drunk it all in, not sure what to make of the sudden changes in his life. He began carrying a notebook and writing down his thoughts during quiet moments. Stella immersed herself in bookshops, scouring for overlooked and undervalued volumes. She laughed when Rose told her of the Bloomsbury party and then made her promise they would take her if they ever went again. "It isn't everyday one meets the Woolfs," she said.

Rose's lungs hurt even more in the damp English weather, but she insisted otherwise, fearing that a departure would end the magic. There was a new gift waiting for her every morning—a book, a dress, an exquisite piece of jewelry, whatever it happened to be it was always accompanied by a drawing from Jack. He was drawing more than ever, constantly in need of paper and charcoal pencils, his fingers lightly stained and sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

On the night before they were to leave for France, Jack wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "Happy?" he whispered into her curls. She smiled. "Very," she said. She twisted around so she could look into his eyes. "This has been wonderful, Jack." He kissed her softly. "It doesn't have to end," he said. "The rest of our lives can be like this."

"A few weeks ago that would have scared me." She laughed. "The money, I mean. It would have terrified me." He cupped her cheek. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he said. "We're the same as we always were, right?" She nodded. He pressed his forehead to hers. "And that's how we're gonna stay."

She twisted her fingers in the soft hair that fell over his collar, pressing her hand against the back of his neck. Urgency filled her kisses. His hands found her waist. "Jack," she whispered. "I want you." She giggled as he swung her up into his arms. "You haven't carried me in a long time."

"I know. What have I been thinking?"

Jack kissed her as he laid her down. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. His hands slipped around her to the hooks on her dress. He lifted her up easily, pressing their bodies together from a new angle as he deftly removed the layers of silk keeping his hands from her skin.

…..

Calais looked exactly the same, and yet it was unrecognizable. Stella walked slowly, trailing behind the rest of the family, her dark eyes roving over everything. A tiny knot had formed in the pit of her stomach the moment they stepped off the boat, and nothing she did would lessen the feeling of dread. _It's the associations,_ she told herself. _It's what you remember. _Out of the corner of her eye she saw a familiar stone pattern. She stopped with a quiet gasp. There it was. The building where they had lived. Her gaze found the top floor. It hadn't changed at all. The balcony was the same. The windows where she had watched the rows of British soldiers march through the city were the same. She shivered. The knot in her stomach grew.

….

Jack had always secretly wondered what it would be like to return to Paris with plenty of money in his pocket, but he never expected to actually do it. He couldn't help but smile as he stepped out onto the balcony of their hotel room. The glittering city lay before him. He leaned against the railing, drinking in the sight. "So there you are," Rose said laying her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "It's beautiful," she said.

"I think I want to paint it."

"Oh, you should!"

He laughed. "Okay, if that's how you feel about it I'll start tomorrow night." She kissed his hand. "I want to see Paris the way you see it," she said. "Because I know it's unlike anything I've ever imagined."

"I've heard some of your imaginings. They're not quite the stuff a first class girl is supposed to be thinking about."

Rose pretended to shove him away. "Not _those_ imaginings! Jack, we don't speak of those!" Laughing, he hugged her to him. "Alright. I won't speak of them," he said. He brushed her lips with his. "I'll just show my interpretation of them." She shivered in his arms. "After I draw you again."

"Don't you ever tire of that?" she teased.

"Never. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't."

….

Jack was spotted painting the next night, and by breakfast there was a pile of cards inviting him and Rose to every social function the city had to offer. Rose laughed as she read them. "Oh, Mother detests her!" she cried holding up a lavender card. "We must go to this dinner!"

"Why?"

"Because I've heard the most dreadful stories about her. I want to see if they're true."

Jack shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. "Alright. That's a good reason." Rose clapped her hands, childish in her happiness. "I never knew receiving invitations could be so fun!"

"I never knew watching someone read them could be such fun." He laid his hand over hers. "You're so beautiful." She shook her head. "You are," he insisted. "You always have been, but right now, in this moment…." She blushed under his gaze. "Don't move," he said. "Please?"

He drew her quickly, afraid he would lose the moment. She forced herself not to look at the drawing taking shape under his hands. Finally, he sat back with a satisfied sigh. "Want to see?"

"Jack, it's beautiful!" she gasped. He shrugged off her comment. "It's you, that's all."

Before Rose knew it another month had passed. She didn't mention the swiftly moving time to Jack nor the way her coughing was worsening. The last thing she wanted was for the roller coaster to end.


	25. Chapter 25

_8 Months Later_

_India_

Rose hugged her pillow tighter, squeezing her eyes closed against the bright morning sun. She pulled the blanket over her head and rolled over. She sighed at the faint sounds of the house stirring below her. She buried her face in the cool sheets, ignoring the creak of the door opening. Jack moved slowly across the room. When the silence became too thick to bear, she spoke. "How did you sleep?"

"Okay." He ran a hand along his shirts, stopping when he felt the right one. "It wasn't the same as sleeping up here with you, but…." He shrugged. "I've slept in worse."

"You don't have to sleep down there." She sat up, holding the blankets around herself. "I never asked you to."

"I know," he said, surprised by how hurt she sounded. "It's just with—" He stepped into a clean pair of pants. "I think it's best right now."

"Best for whom?" Rose picked at the tiny feathers poking out of the pillow. "I'm not sure it's best for anyone," she said. Jack sighed. "Rose, you know I—"

She cut him off. "I don't think there's anything to worry about. I think it was one time. You were scared and angry—you'd never—"

"Rose, I don't wanna talk about it." The pain in his voice cut through her. His shoulders slumped. She wrapped her arms around him, covering him with the blanket. He rested his head on her shoulder. His hands curled around the small swell of her stomach. "We have to talk about it eventually," she said. She kissed his hair. "We can't go on pretending nothing has changed."

He stiffened. "I'm not. I couldn't if I wanted to." He tried to pull away, but she tightened her grip. "Neither could I," she said. She cupped his face. "Jack, I love you. I miss you." She pressed her forehead to his, avoiding his eyes. If she didn't know better she would think they hadn't changed at all. If she let herself, she could still get lost in them. He squeezed her hands. "I haven't gone anywhere," he said softly. "I'm right here."

"Then why does it feel like you're gone?"

...

Jack tried to move slowly through the house, but after a few feet his resolve faded. Holding his hands out, he took short, quick steps, swearing when his calculations were wrong and he walked into a piece of furniture or a wall. His legs wore a rainbow of bruises. He stepped forward, one hand on the wall next to him, the other groping for the table, only to have his knee collide with it. He grit his teeth against the pain. Tears of frustration filled his eyes. He rubbed them away, determined to keep going despite the constantly changing layout of the house.

He felt Rose's eyes on his back. He moved faster, ignoring the unspoken offer of help. She followed him, hands poised to catch him if he fell.

Jack carefully lowered himself into the chair. He threw his head back and let the sun shine full upon his face. Rose sat next to him, curled like a cat under the sun shade. "You should let it hit you," he said. He slipped out of his shirt. "We don't all turn that lovely shade of gold," Rose replied. "Some of us just burn."

"After you burn you tan."

"So you say, but I never make it past the burn."

Rose closed her eyes and leaned back against the chair. She breathed deeply, loving the feel of the dry, hot air in her lungs. Jack whistled quietly, breaking the silence. She knew the tune but not the words. It was a song they had danced to in England, spinning through a hot, smoke-filled room with the clapping of the crowd in their ears. She smiled at the memory of Jack's disheveled hair, a few damp locks falling over his eyes as he held her close, his hands curling around her waist.

Rose sighed. It felt like a decade had passed since that night. She glanced over at Jack. He paused mid-whistle. "I can feel you thinking," he said.

"What does it feel like?"

"Heavy." He rolled onto his side to face her. She stretched out on her side, letting a hand graze the ground. "Is that all?" she asked.

"What else do you want?"

"You know what I want."

Jack sighed. "Rose—"

"Talk to me, Jack," she insisted.

"What do you want me to say?" He sat up and roughly brushed back his hair. "You want me to tell you what it's like being blind? What it feels like to not be able to do anything for myself anymore?" Bitterness thickened his voice. "Forget for a second that I'll never be able to draw again—never create anything again—" His voice rose. "Never see you—never see a Goddamned thing again—" He let out a short howl of rage. Rose wrapped her arms around him. He resisted her embrace, but she held him fast, cradling his head. "Don't," she whispered fiercely. "Don't you do that again." She stroked his hair as his tears soaked through her dress.

"I'm _nothing _now," he spat. "I'm weak and useless—I can't—Never see our children—the baby-Goddamnit!" He buried his face in her neck; each gasping breath brought a fresh wave of her scent. He shuddered and wrapped his arms around her. "Ssshh," Rose said soothingly. She ran her hands down his back. "It's alright. It'll be alright."

"How can it be?" Jack raised his head. His hands found their way to her face. Her tears wrenched his heart. A fresh wave of self-loathing washed over him. _If you hadn't insisted—_He shoved the thought aside. "I don't know, Jack," she said. "But it will be."

…

_Six Months Earlier_

Rose swung their clasped hands and laughed. "Jack, I can't believe you said that!" He grinned down at her. "Why not? Doesn't it sound like me?" He stuck his nose in the air. "I realize, of course," he said haughtily, "That is wasn't the most gentlemanly thing to say, but of course—" She shoved him playfully. "Oh, don't pretend you didn't know what you were doing!"

He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her waist. Her laughter faded away as she looked into his eyes. He lightly caressed her cheek with his thumb. "You are so beautiful." The desire in his voice still made her shiver. She pulled him into a kiss.

They were interrupted by the children running from the house. "There they are!" Jack cried. He grabbed each with one arm and swung them up. Monica giggled. Anthony rolled his eyes at her, but his grin was as bright. "Jack! Put down our children!" Rose cried in mock horror. "Is that you want?" Jack asked, swinging them back and forth. They shook their heads, clinging to him. "I'm afraid you're outvoted, Rose." She shook her head as he carried them into the house amidst a chorus of giggles.

Scrabble tiles and half-finished drawings littered the floor of the back sitting room. Jack sat on the floor in the middle of the chaos. Anthony sat on his left sorting the tiles into two piles. Monica sat on his right, eagerly explaining a drawing. For a moment all Rose could do was watch them, a smile spreading across her face. "I know two children who should be in bed," she said. They both turned to Jack. "You heard her," he said. "Go. I'll come tell you stories."

"Where's your sister?" Rose called after them.

"She's in the kitchen," Monica replied. "Learning to make curry."

"Maybe she can explain it to me," Jack said. Rose laughed. "Are you missing the days when you did all of the cooking?"

"I'm missing the days when I could amaze you with—" He tossed his head back and assumed a thick French accent. "—My culinary skills!" Rose wrapped her arms around his neck. "Perhaps you should amaze me with you ability to imitate accents," she said dryly. "You're quite good at it."

….

"Your kids are crazy," Jack said. He sat down across from Rose. She raised an eyebrow. "_My_ children are crazy? I thought they were our children." He reached across the table and took her hand. "More yours than mine."

"I would beg to differ, but I don't feel like arguing."

"Cause I'll win." Jack laced their fingers together. "This table turned out alright." He studied the design of the orchids painted on the tabletop. "I coulda made that petal a little softer, but it's alright."

"It's exquisite," she said giving his hand a squeeze.

Jack smiled. "If you say so. You always have been my worst critic."

"Worst critic?"

"You don't see enough of the flaws in what I do," he explained. "Like right there, on that petal." Rose made a _pffft_ sound. "You have a gift, Jack. You have many, actually."

"I have you."

She couldn't help but smile. "And?"

"You are the best thing that ever happened to me." He kissed her knuckles, sending a shiver up her spine. "Why are _our _children crazy?" she asked. He chuckled. "Just when I was telling Monica her story—and then Anthony—" He laughed. "Yeah, I can't really tell it right." Rose leaned across the table and kissed the tip of his nose. "You are adorable," she said.

He shrugged. "It's the kids, really."

"You're a wonderful father, Jack."

His smile deepened for a moment. "I try." He studied their clasped hands. "I want to be the father they deserve, someone they can be proud of."

Rose's heart swelled. "They are," she said softly. "And so am I."

"You know I was thinking….of what it might be like to have another," he said.

…

_Present Day_

Rose curled up in the middle of the bed, wrapping the sheets tightly around herself. She closed her eyes against the memories, but they came anyway, flooding her mind. The ache she carried all day threatened to swallow her. It cut through her they way she always imagined losing Jack would.

Meanwhile, Jack tried vainly to force his body to fit on the short sitting room couch. Even after four months of sleeping on it he still didn't know how to make himself comfortable. With an exasperated sigh he flopped onto his back. If he were upstairs Rose's head would be resting on his chest, her arm would be draped over him, her legs entwined with his. If he were upstairs, the darkness wouldn't oppress him so much; he could let himself drift off, forgetting for a moment that everything had changed forever. But he wasn't upstairs, and he wouldn't be until he trusted himself again.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, letting his legs hang off the end of the couch. A warm breeze blew in from the open window, bringing with it the scent of lavender. For a moment he was sure it was Rose, sure she was standing over him, that he could reach up and touch her if he wanted, but the scent faded and he wasn't sure if it had even been there at all.

…

Rose slowly rubbed her belly. The swelling was still small enough it could be hidden beneath a dress, but a hand couldn't miss it. She jumped when Jack appeared in the doorway. His eyes were wide and frightened. His hand trembled on the doorknob. He stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

"Rose," he murmured, collapsing into her arms. She pulled him down on the bed next to her. "What happened?" she asked. He heard her voice, but the words meant nothing. He pressed her to him. She brushed his hair back and cupped his face. "Did you have another nightmare?"

He responded with a kiss. Rose pulled away. "Jack—" He kissed her again, more urgently this time. His hands moved over her body. Warmth spread through her. She let out a soft moan as he rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him. She took his hands in hers, trying to ignore the growing hardness pressing against her. "We can't do this," she said.

"Rose—"

"I want to do this, but we can't." Her breath came in gasps. "Jack—" He pulled her into another kiss. Her grip on his hands weakened. Suddenly his fingertips were caressing her thighs. His lips moved to her neck, his fear melting away a little more with each kiss. Eventually he couldn't remember the nightmare, couldn't remember waking up in a cold sweat with Rose's name on his lips. He didn't need sight for this. What had he been thinking? The moment he let himself touch Rose it all came back.

She held him as he trembled. He brushed his fingers across her cheek. "I love you," he whispered. She laid his head on her shoulder. "I love you too." Jack closed his eyes and let his hands move slowly over her. "You don't have anything to be afraid of," she said. How could he explain that he couldn't believe her? That, as afraid as he had been to touch her, he was now just as afraid to stop touching her?


	26. Chapter 26

They were sleeping together again; that was something to be grateful for, she supposed. Having Jack curled up next to her was always better than not. Before it had always been his arm curled around her waist, her back pressed against his chest; she had been the smaller spoon, warm and comforted. Now, it was him.

"I can remember what it was like," he said, one night, unable to sleep. "I can see things in my mind."

"You couldn't just forget," she said.

"I think I did for a while…or I forgot how."

"Is it better now?"

"I don't know."

Making love when he was afraid became a pattern. He woke up from nightmares reaching for her. His desperate kisses landed anywhere he could put them. He clung to her, trembling, whispering her name. "I'm right here," she said, cradling his head. "You don't have to be afraid. You're in our bed. You're safe, Jack."

Rose tried not to wonder whether it was really her he wanted or just an irrefutable reassurance that he was still alive.

The children couldn't decide whether to avoid him or to pretend nothing had happened. Monica stared at his eyes, unable to understand how they could just stop working. She shivered when he looked in her direction. Anthony simply followed her lead; it was too much to process on his own. They tiptoed through the house. The sound of his voice startled them now. Rose tried to comfort them, to explain why Jack was so different, but her hope of improvement was wearing thin, and they knew it.

Stella began taking them out during the day. "They need something to do," she said.

Rose nodded. "They shouldn't be here while things are like this." She watched Jack through the window. Frowning heavily, he ran his hands over a paintbrush. "When he's like this," she added softly.

"He isn't any better, is he?" Stella asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"He won't talk to me. Not about what happened, not about how he feels, not about anything." Rose's shoulders slumped. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her curls were limp and dull. "I can't help him," she said. "I can't get him to let me."

Stella hesitated. "What does he say about the baby?"

"He doesn't say anything. He just lays his hand on my belly and sighs. And he was so excited we were going to have another one. He wanted another one." Rose shook her head. "It was so easy this time. We decided, and—there we were!" Rose was startled by the sound of her own laughter. "And now, here we are," she added flatly.

…

If it didn't come easily anymore it may as well not come at all. He wanted to say that. He wanted to say eventual improvement didn't matter if there weren't signs of promise at the start. But he couldn't. There wasn't a way to fit the words together to make her understand how he felt.

"It's always been so easy for you," she said quietly. Her voice startled him. "You didn't have to try before," she went on. "You could just _do_." She caressed his knuckles with her thumb. "You could think with your hands." He felt her looking into his eyes. "But you can't anymore, and it's killing you."

Jack had always peeled oranges easily. In his hands the thick fruit skin fell away as if it had never been attached. Rose loved to watch him, his long fingers moving with the quickness of true dexterity. She had always eaten oranges with a spoon. Each bite was small, carefully extracted to avoid dripping juice. But Jack pulled them apart by hand, not noticing—or perhaps not caring—about the sticky juice running through his fingers. The smell grew stronger with each bite. Rose chewed slowly, savoring the pieces he fed her.

He didn't peel oranges anymore, nor did he eat them. Rose's attempts always ended with the orange squashed in her fist, and even if they hadn't, he still wouldn't have eaten them. If he couldn't prepare it himself he wouldn't eat it. Despite Rose's protestations, Jack's list of foods he wouldn't eat had grown longer each day. All it took was one failed attempt for him to banish it from his diet forever.

"But I don't understand," she said. "Why can't I just help you?"

"I—You just can't. I need to be able to do these things for myself."

"But Jack—" She clapped her mouth shut. _You can't do most things for yourself anymore._ He slowly walked away, one hand on the wall for guidance. She didn't have to say it. He already knew.

Rose sighed. Defeated, she dropped into a chair. Pain coursed through her head. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. Jack's footsteps were easy to hear in the silent house; his swearing a moment later when he stumbled into something was even easier to hear. She closed her eyes, determined to let him sort it out himself. Nothing would be accomplished by pretending to be his mother or his nurse. But if she couldn't take care of him, what could she do? If he wouldn't let her help him, what was there for her to do? Watch him crash into furniture? Count the bruises on his legs and pretend it didn't matter? Let him chip away at his diet until he was eating only a slice of bread with butter on it for every meal?

"God damnit!" Jack's cry was more of pain than anger. Rose ran to him, gasping when she saw the shards of glass littering the floor. "Jack!" she screamed dropping down next to him. Blood poured from his hands. Dark smears covered the front of his shirt. He sucked in his breath. "I'm alright," he insisted. She grabbed his wrists. "You are not," she said. Something in her tone told him not to argue. She pressed his hands into her skirt. "You are far from alright," she added. "Now, let me help you." He shook his head. She cut him off before he could speak. "I'm not asking. There isn't a choice. I love you, and I'm not going to watch you let your life slip away." She pressed down harder on his hands. "We will get through this together. Jack, I promised you I would never give up, and I haven't. But you have."

"You don't know what it's like!" he cried. He tried to jerk away, but she held him fast. Her voice was low and soothing. "I only know what you tell me," she said. "How can I understand the way you feel if you only give me these snapshots? The only time you even try to talk to me is when you're angry. When you're scared you can't speak at all, and—and—oh damn it, Jack!" she cried, pushing him away. Tears burned her eyes. He reached for her, the blood on his hands forgotten. "Rose?" She brushed his hands away. "Don't," she choked out. "Don't…" Sobbing now, she hugged herself, struggling to breathe around the aching lump in her throat.

"Rose—"

"No!" she screamed. Shaking uncontrollably, she stumbled as she tried to stand up. She grabbed a chair for support. She leaned too heavily at the wrong angle, and it tipped over. She gasped as her knees hit the floor. "You're gonna hurt yourself!" he yelled. He reached for her again; this time his hands found her waist. "You're shaking," he said. He pulled her closer. "Rose," he said, disbelief thickening his voice. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing loudly. He moved his hands over her in search of her face. He wrapped an arm around her. "I'm sorry," he said. He kissed the backs of her hands. "I'm sorry, Rose."

Her voice was eerily calm. "I can't do this, Jack."

"What?"

"I can't watch you give up. I'm trying to help you, to give you time, to give you whatever you need, but you're not getting any better. Nothing I do helps. I can't bring back your sight. I can't make it easier for you. I can't even begin to understand how you're feeling. And it breaks my heart to look at you."

"I'm trying," he said finally. "I don't know what to do. Everything's gone."

"It's not gone!" She grabbed him by the shoulders. "Jack, we're all still right here. I'm here. The children are here. We love you. Nothing will ever be the same…except that."

"I'll never see them grow up." There was bitterness in his voice.

"Jack—"

"We have a child I'll never see. Not once. A child I'll never be able to hold…"

"That's absurd, of course—"

"No." He shook his head. "I don't trust myself anymore. I can't trust myself, not with our children, not after..."

_Six and a half months earlier_

Cold sweat covered his body. He gasped for breath. The sound of bombs exploding filled his ears. He was dimly aware of the floor beneath him, but he couldn't remember how he had gotten there. Rose's voice pierced through the din, but he couldn't move.

"Jack?" She lifted his head. "Jack, are you alright?" He grunted in reply. "You missed the chair when you tried to sit down, didn't you?" she said. She gently raised him up. "You didn't hit your head, did you?"

"My head's okay," he said.

"You're burning up. This shirt is soaked." She tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice. "Come on," she said. "We have to get you in bed."

"I'm cold," he protested. "I just need—" He sank against her, too weak to fight.

He saw it when he closed his eyes. The bright sun overhead, the crowded street, all the colors of the world, now richer than ever—and then it was all gone. It was like a chorus of shotgun blasts. He was flying through the air, unable to breathe, and then he slammed into the ground. His head bounced off a rock. He didn't feel anything at first. It was as if his body was gone, and only his mind remained. He heard the screaming, but it was too far away to matter.

The pain began when he tried to open his eyes.

His screams woke her. She shot out of her chair. "Jack, it's alright." He thrashed wildly, clawing at his face. "Jack!" She managed to grab his hands. Blood trickled down his cheek. He fought to break free. "No!" he yelled. "Let go! You can't—"

"Jack, it's me! You're hurting yourself!"

Somehow she kept her grip on him as he sprang to his feet. She stumbled backwards from the force of his movements. He twisted her wrists, pressing her against the wall. She let out a cry of pain. His expression was unlike any she had ever seen on him. Her heart pounded. His face twisted; he released her arms, her presence forgotten. Howling, he pressed his hands over his eyes and tried to run. He tripped, slamming his legs into one of the trunks they used as luggage. Tears worsened the ache in his eyes.

Jack was never sure what exactly happened, and Rose refused to tell him. He just remembered hitting her.

_Present_

Rose touched his face. "I trust you," she said.

"I hurt you."

"You did."

He pressed her closer; his hands moved across her body. She let herself sink against him. Her head ached from crying. She rubbed her eyes against his shirt. Even then, the scent of him was comforting. She felt lighter than she had in months. Jack's hand found her face. He tilted her head up and gently kissed her. "Maybe you shouldn't stay with me," he said.


End file.
